


The Desert Rose

by Teaandcakes



Series: Beyond Ourselves [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF Anthea, BDSM, Explicit Sex, M/M, Mycroft Legwork, Sherlock Whump, Some blood and gore, Some sad bits, Terrorism, Whump, a touch of, sex up against a Land Rover bonnet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:26:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 43,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaandcakes/pseuds/Teaandcakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft has just been told that Prince Wasim (his long time lover whom he met at Eton) has disappeared, somewhere in the desert of Wasim's homeland, the Democratic Arabian Kingdom. </p><p>(The last scene we saw in the last fic in this series, "Beautiful Child", is of a motionless figure in the cab of a huge 4x4 parked in flat featureless burning desert, miles from the Palace.....and with the country being overrun by militant rebels).</p><p>This is the story of what happened next....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Amman, Jordan

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for some raunchiness. Yes, I know, Chapter One. I'm spoiling you...

The small hired jet, new, smart and expensively appointed in the gilt and leather style favoured by its regular clientele, touched down smoothly and serenely in a dusty and sprawling military base not far from Amman, Jordan. 

It was midday local time and unbelievably hot and arid, the smell of air fuel and afterburners lingering in the mouth. The sort of place where, if someone invented a way of making air-conditioned clothes, they would be a billionaire in weeks. No one had, regrettably, so the fabulously well-heeled passengers tended to scurry from air conditioned cabins to air conditioned terminal as fast as decency and their chosen mode of dress would allow.

Three men and a woman walked down the steps, into the grip of this scorching unforgiving sun. Clearly they were either unfamiliar with heat like this, or there was a specific reason for the sedate pace. Even a casual observer would note that two of the four were noticeably slower-paced than the others. 

.............

Mycroft Holmes, scion of the distinguished and ancient Anglo-Norman Holmes family, walked down stiffly after several hours seated, his artificial lower left leg hidden by impeccable Huntsman tailoring and slightly twisting as he reached for the next step using the handrail.

And, following, his brother-in-law, Sir John Watson-Holmes, his right arm a livid mess of old scarring and healed skin grafts. Both injuries were the product of the chopper crash and the subsequent captivity plus torture which had almost ended his life. The mental scars of what else happened during those days, that final humiliation and degradation, he kept in the same small dark place that he kept his memories of being shot while trying to save an injured comrade in Helmand. John was dressed in plain sand coloured tee shirt and trousers, sunglasses mirroring the scorching sun. His hair was sandy too, but mixed in now was the odd silver one. He was not a vain man, and he never considered masking the grey.

Of all of the party, John looked most at home in the Middle East, but then he would. For him, this was a sort of second home, a bleached blonde arid contrast to England. Interestingly, John also looked the fittest of the group, as, conscious of his tendency to gain weight, he had spent the last few weeks in a relentless programme of gym exercises: those at least that were viable with his partial disability.

The pair "maimed in conflict" safely down the steps, the reason for the slow progress, next to emerge was Tamara, Mycroft's wife, tall, austere and gravely beautiful. She was mindful of her surroundings and protocol and was severely and modestly dressed. She would have worn all-white, but an inconveniently aggressive phase of the (hideous and vindictive) menopause was playing merry havoc with her menstrual cycle and so, wishing to avoid any risk of embarrassment, she had decided to sacrifice style in favour of practicality, opting for dark grey linen wide-legged trousers with her white loose-billowing high necked blouse and silk wrap.

............

Last to appear from the plane, was sometime junkie, sometime detective and perennial major public celebrity, Sherlock Watson-Holmes. He cut a tall slim figure, impeccably turned out in cream linen trousers and an ice white open-necked shirt. There was no place for the Belstaff here, and his usual style was muted and altered. His hair was short now, really short, the curls sacrificed for the sake of coolness in the heat, making him look very unlike the man he was at Baker Street. They would grow back, of course. If he wanted them to. He knew John wanted them back badly, John kept muttering and mumbling about it in his charmingly grouchy way and Sherlock had teased that John really just wanted them back to grip onto, when Sherlock's mouth was wrapped around John's cock. John had blushed and muttered that Sherlock shouldn't be so bloody good at doing that, then, should he... or have such a pretty mouth? The discussion had ended with a practical demonstration of the challenges of grippage in this circumstance, and the argument had been declared a draw.

................

They made a striking group, this quartet, obviously but quietly privileged in everything save the boundless energy of extreme youth. Owing to their luggage being classed as diplomatic baggage, and thus protected from being searched by the inquisitive, they were both the object of unconcealed interest but also allowed to go on their way unchallenged.

John wondered if Mycroft even had a passport, or if like the Queen, his face was enough to grant him safe passage wherever he went? Or maybe he had one with a cartoon, Judge Dredd style, proclaiming "I am The Law"? He smiled to himself at the thought.

All four of them were covertly armed. Not only that, but Mycroft was packing a few of Six's latest toys. He didn't normally bother with the Bond-style trinkets, but he'd made an exception this time. If they met with trouble, he wanted to be able to deal with it head on, because in this hostile environment, "trouble" could escalate into "catastrophe" in a matter of minutes and there was no one to hear their screams.

.............

John and Sherlock had only been given brief details of the plan. Originally, Mycroft had intended to come alone, and been adamant about it. Then Tamara had insisted on accompanying him, having had extensive experience in the region and not ignoring her husband's disability, she told him he was "not doing this one solo". Uniquely, he listened to what Tamara said and, more often than not, found her advice to be sound. 

So Tamara came with him. It was understood however, that she would need to remain in Jordan when Mycroft left for the Democratic Arabian Kingdom. Under Wasim's family's hegemony, the DAK state was a restrictive but safe place for women, provided they observed customs and laws regarding modesty of dress and behaviour. But the extremist Islamist forces that now occupied much of the DAK's territory and which was advancing on the capital as they flew into Jordan, saw women very differently, Western women in particular. The insurgents regarded most as little more than painted whores, despising their dress, education and sexual freedom.

Being both tall and strikingly Western in appearance, there was no way Tamara could pass herself off as a local woman, should the need arise. She would be a target hence she would also be a liability and she understood that, as had Anthea, who was also forced to remain behind, (although Anthea at least had the consolation of running the show in Mycroft's absence).

............

Mycroft had told Sherlock and John that they too should remain in the UK, that John had done enough and suffered enough, for his country and that Sherlock needed to stay behind to be with Parthalan, his son, who was not that far on from the time when he was kidnapped and who was still an insecure and fearful boy, preferring his Papa's company to children of his own age or other adults.

But Sherlock wouldn't hear of it, despite Mycroft's protestations and John's frown. Sherlock pointed out that both Mycroft and John were facing physical challenges and with Anthea and Tamara unable to help on the ground, it should be he who supported Mycroft in this endeavour.

What he did not say out loud, but what all present silently understood, was that Sherlock was determined to be with his brother because Mycroft might not find his prince alive and none of them knew what such a discovery might do to Mycroft. Sherlock was concerned that Mycroft, always so stable and rock-like in adversity, had already begun to blame himself for Wasim's situation. The Prince had fled back to his homeland of DAK after Mycroft broke off their decades long relationship in order to be free to marry Tamara, once it became clear Wasim's situation would never make it possible for the two men to be together openly and permanently.

For Mycroft, who had made a habit of blaming himself for tragedy, for not managing to prevent it or save the victim, first with Sherrinford's accidental death at twelve, then William's sexual abuse by a study tutor when he was eleven... and now potentially Wasim falling victim to some disaster as well, these were dangerous times. 

Sherlock knew all about danger nights, and not just in relation to himself.

Currently, the only outward sign of this strain on Mycroft's sharp features was the set of his mouth, a thin line, compressed and clamped; and the whiteness of his knuckles as he held the handrail on the aircraft steps.

............

Sherlock and John had left their two young children behind in the UK, at Baker Street, with Kirsty their nanny and Mrs Hudson to care for them. There was no discussion needed, they could not come, no question, it was far too dangerous. Ishbel was cheerful enough about it, being promised a large cuddly camel toy when they returned "if she was good", but Parthalan was a different story. Sherlock wondered whether taking the six year old out with him on the less gory crime scene recces recently had been a good idea or not; Bee loved it all, but it had made him feel entitled to be involved in all aspects of Sherlock's work and clearly that wasn't always possible or appropriate.

This trip, their first major one away from the children since they were born and the first trip away of any kind since Parthalan was kidnapped as part of a plot to abduct and kill Mycroft, had now resulted in a massive tantrum followed by Parthalan stopping talking altogether. There was nothing physically wrong with him, so the doctors said, nothing except for the tyrannical schemes of a six year old who is terrified of being parted from the only people he trusts to keep him safe.

But there was no option and in any case, in a few weeks time "Bee" would be going off to boarding school, the same one attended by Rachel, Mary Morstan and James Moriarty's daughter, now the adopted daughter of Mycroft and Tamara following Mary's death. There would be ponies there and tuck boxes and dancing lessons laid on extra, because Bee was showing real talent, but there would also be several extra members of staff, ostensibly performing some vague sounding pastoral and administration duties, but in reality they had one job, and one job only: to ensure that never again was Parthalan "Bee" Mycroft Holmes the subject of a kidnapping or assassination attempt.

It wasn't the childhood they wanted for him, but like the Royals and the fabulously wealthy, the price of not putting protection in place was too terrible to think about.

...........

For now, the two couples made their way across to the waiting (and blessedly air conditioned) limousine. They were soon speeding down a four-lane-each-way highway, heading for the six star hotel and the bliss of both a bath and dinner. Mycroft and Tamara were staying in a single suite but Sherlock and John had booked two, to avoid any unwanted attention. Jordan was a less hostile place politically than many Arab States, but that still didn't extend to overt displays of homosexuality.

An hour later, safely away from the danger of being accused of flaunting themselves , the "Do Not Disturb" sign was up on Sherlock's suite and he and John were sharing an obscenely large (and frankly obscenely bubbly) bath. This was the last night they would get to spend in comfort until they had answered the question of the Prince's fate, and they intended to make the most of it.

Later, replete with steak and some kind of fruit mousse, they sat propped up in bed, damp haired and pyjama clad. John was wondering how the children were, though he knew from Kirsty's regular texts that they were fine, other than Parthalan's continued refusal to speak and his deep sulk as Sherlock having the temerity to leave him.

Sherlock noticed his husband's distraction. He pointed to his unfinished mousse.

'John. I need your assistance with this.'

John frowned and looked over at the sad and unappetising looking mess in the glass dish. He wrinkled his nose.

'If you wanted me to eat it, love, you should have messed with it a bit less, maybe?'

'That shouldn't matter. Close your eyes. Focus on the sensation of taste.'

John sighed but used to humouring his brilliant spouse, smiled slightly and leaned back against the plump perfect pillows. (About seventeen more lay scattered on the floor, discarded to make space for human occupancy). He crossed his arms, closed his eyes obediently, and stuck out his small pink tongue. He knew Sherlock coveted his tongue, had done since that first night in Angelo's when John ate his pasta and Sherlock stared at him with those hypnotising feline eyes.

No mousse materialised. Well, kind of no mousse. Instead of a spoon of puddled dessert, Sherlock offered up his own mouth and his tongue licked across John's own, Sherlock's tasting of mousse and wine and mint and fabulous digestion. John smiled. He would humour Sherlock for a while, he knew; they liked to play this sort of game with Sherlock taking the lead. Occasionally they carried through with it, but usually, as tonight, John allowed Sherlock to go so far, and then in an instant, the tables were turned and John took control, mentally and physically. Then he took Sherlock apart.

It was what they liked.

.........

Tonight, there was eleven minutes of Sherlockian hegemony before he was summarily felled. Unusually, John didn't physically seize control, instead tonight opting for a quiet order, waiting for a moment and then whispering 'Submit'.

The effect was instantaneous. Sherlock's eyes gleamed and his whole physical stature transformed. He went from being propped above John, holding him in place and passionately kissing him, to being knelt quietly on the bed alongside him. There was no mistaking Sherlock's quiet satisfaction with the transformation however. That much was clear from the tiny quirk of his mouth. 

John might have physical and verbal control, but Sherlock was getting John to give him exactly what he wanted - rest from his too-frantic mind. Mycroft might be the most affected by Wasim's disappearance but it was a huge worry for Sherlock too, having been intimate with the Prince in terms of BDSM scenes, albeit in a non-directly sexual way, he was distraught about the possibility of a tragic outcome to their search, as well as terrified that John might come to harm as a result.

So, John gave them both what they wanted and they needed. It was rough and it was fast and it ended with both of them biting down to quieten their sounds, mindful of cultural taboos and relatives next door. Sherlock bit his own tongue hard enough to wound it and the expensive sheets were ruined as blood dripped onto them (tongues are awkward like that, they bleed and bleed) before John managed to manhandle his naked Phoenix into the tiled bathroom to attend to the small, deep cut. 

Afterwards, tongue bathed and skin smoothed and cleaned by cloths scented with mimosa and glasses of iced water drunk, they lay on their backs on the huge bed, their spent soft cocks resting inelegantly, as soft cocks will and do, their tired bodies content just to touch side by side.

...................

John could never get enough of this. Sherlock by his side, free from the trappings of being the famous consulting detective, the celebrity, the expert and instead being simply a man. His man. At that, a man whose early rejection of all matters sexual, as a result of his childhood sexual abuse had slowly given way to a delightful freedom of expression in the bedroom. There were still hangups of course, practices and phrases they could not use, things they avoided either completely or most of the time. 

It was not something that they would ever be able to completely set aside, or forget. A certain grip, a certain brand of Cologne, a certain texture of a particular cloth weave. And it certainly drove part of Sherlock's need to be restrained, to be beaten and flogged, to submit to John when things got too much for him. Not because he wanted the pain, but because of what the pain did to his brain, how it allowed him to escape the distress and the noise that was always churning in there, replacing it with a cool white space that was something like drowning, and something like rebirth.

But the important thing for John was that Sherlock trusted him, and loved him, and had the confidence to allow these things to happen, to be confident that John would know where to draw a line. To look after Sherlock. Never to harm him. 

Always to love him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll probably have noticed by now, that I like to weave in a few words here and there into my fics that I have especially enjoyed in an authors work. Just a couple of words (and always credited). It's fun for me although it does expose my eclectic choice of reading matter....
> 
> This chapter's example is the claim that Sherlock, as well as smelling of mint etc, also smells of 'fabulous digestion'. This bizarre descriptor is from Jilly Cooper's saucy romp, "Riders", applied to the fabulously naughty Rupert Campbell-Black. But I probably don't need to tell you that, you need only fish out your own well-thumbed copies from under the bed to find the reference.....
> 
> (In reality, I have no idea what great digestion smells like, but I think whatever magic it is, Rupert and Sherlock would both be blessed with its magnetic properties ...:-D)


	2. Decisions

It was during breakfast the next morning, in the vast and opulent verandah by the pool, that news started to come in that the political and military situation in DAK was deteriorating rapidly. Islamist extremist forces were now just a few miles from the capital and closing in fast.

Mycroft looked pale and ate little. Sherlock, too, was quiet. Tamara and John talked in low voices about minutiae but in reality they were as preoccupied as the brothers. Mycroft frequently left the table to take or make telephone calls and they became progressively more agitated, which was so out of character that John's mouth fell open.

When Mycroft returned to the table for the third time in as many minutes, John decided that enough was enough.

'So', he said firmly. 'What's going on? Are we flying in? What's happening?

Mycroft tapped the phone against his chin. Sherlock's attention was on him.

'We may still have enough time to reach the capital and our contacts and head out to find Wasim. But we have to do something first. His wife and child are stranded in the capital and my sources indicate that they may be being held under house arrest in the Palace. We will have to secure them and their safe passage into exile, before we can leave the capital and search for the Prince.

...................

Tamara's and John's faces blanched. Of course. They had forgotten about Wasim's wife and child. The boy must be terrified. Tamara thought of Alexander the Great, another young leader who died in the desert far from home, and whose wife and son were brutally murdered by competitors for the succession to his vast and unstable empire. 

Not this time. 

Not a repeat of Roxane and young Alexander IV's killing. 

Whether or not they could rescue Wasim, this time the women and children would not also be slaughtered, if she could help it. She reached out for Mycroft's hand, and squeezed it.

'We will not leave without them. It is what Wasim would do, too, isn't it? It if were you, and the positions reversed?'

Mycroft smiled at her.

'You are so dear to me and so right. Neither I nor Wasim would ever leave a mother and child behind to the wickedness of these men.'

...............

John and Sherlock both thought, at that moment, of Mrs Holmes, mourning the death of her first child Sherrinford, drowned in an accident in the river at twelve and of the effect on Mycroft, who heard her cry of anguish and loss. And of Tamara, who had witnessed in her humanitarian work in conflict zones worldwide, countless examples of mothers and children murdered or brutalised, often simply in the name of race conflict, or religion, or any other number of poor excuses for killing, raping, beating other human beings.

The mood in the room had changed now; even in the desert heat, the chill coldness of fear and dread visited each of them in turn. Mycroft spoke for all of them.

'I think some reflection, short though it must perforce to be, is appropriate. This is my personal mission, to recover the Prince and his family and I cannot underline enough the danger and potential for loss of life it will entail. We are effectively going to have to swoop into a heavily guarded Islamist stronghold and remove captives without being killed ourselves, or them killing the captives. And then travel out into a lawless desert area bursting with all kinds of bandits and rival factions. All trigger happy and none of them seeing a group of Westerners as anything other than PR bait as we are beheaded on film.

We leave at noon. John and Sherlock, you are under no obligation to join me. The endeavour could accurately be classed as suicidal and do not interpret the willingness of my wife to allow me to go as being any indication that it is not as dangerous as I have outlined. It is. She is just a truly remarkable woman, who knows of my abiding love for Wasim and does not feel diminished by it.

We will meet again at eleven thirty and I must then know your decision, which once made, cannot be revoked. I should say that I have taken the liberty of making contingent arrangements for your children and for Rachel, should the worst happen to any or all of us.

Mycroft nodded his farewell, his face grim and then he and Tamara headed off in the direction of their suite.

..................

Sherlock and John looked at each other, Sherlock's face pale and drawn and John's frowning in deep thought.

John cleared his throat.

'I think only one of us should go. Because of the children. If we both die, maybe Mycroft too, what will become of them? I think I should go, I can shoot pretty well with my right hand these days and I'm used to the desert. You should stay with Tamara.'

Sherlock was instantly emotional and irritated.

I should go, John, not you. You are by far the more competent parent out of the two of us and you live for our children's happiness. I care about it, but for you it is as important as breathing. They will do far better with you. In any case, Wasim is not emotionally connected to you as he is to my family. You should not be asked to sacrifice your life for him by the Holmes family.'

John groaned deeply. He grasped Sherlock by his arms and shook him slightly.

'Sherlock. I. Am. Going. This is what I do, what I'm good at.

'The only question is whether you should also go, or not. I have to go. There's no way I'm allowing Mycroft to go alone into this theatre, because that's what it is, Sherlock, it's a theatre of war, with his manners and his privilege and his diplomatic niceties. They will all get him killed, possibly before he ever finds Wasim's wife, let alone the child or Wasim himself.

'You need to consider your parents. They may lose both of you in the next few days. Are you prepared to do that to them? My Mum and Harry would be sorry if I was killed, but they'd be fine after a bit, but yours adore you two and they have already lost one son. I think you should stay here and support Tamara.'

Sherlock twisted out of his arms.

'You're not getting it, John. When I came back after the Fall, I promised that I'd never leave you behind again, that whatever we faced, we would face together. Children or no children. Ageing parents or none. Come what may. And the same commitment should apply in reverse!

'You may have decided to go, John and I respect you for your care for my brother, but if you go, I go with you. No discussion, no negotiation. I will not be separated from you, when there is danger. If we die, let it be alongside and not with one finding out days later and never really knowing what happened until the video footage of a beheading is released on the Internet. I'm not afraid, John. Of any of this, of dying, any of it. What I fear is being without you, being unable to reach out and touch you at the moment my life ends.

'So. We go together, or not at all.'

John stroked the back of his head with his hand. Then he chuckled and shook his head.

'Bloody stubborn fool, that's what you are. You've got no idea, either of you. But I guess you'll find out soon enough what this means. And yes, I do feel the same. Still don't want you there, but, yeah, I'm glad that you are coming.'

.................

The decision made, the men, exhausted by the thousand thoughts that were racing through each of their brains, decided to take a short rest and lay together on the bed, curled up on their sides, face to face, with John's small hand stroking gently down Sherlock's side and his slender frame. It was quiet and soothing, and Sherlock hummed his small sound of pleasure. Almost a purr.

They did not rest for long. By eleven thirty, they were downstairs, packed, and ready to leave.

No going back now. They would come back with their human prizes, or they would come back in a coffin box. They gave Mycroft and Tamara privacy to say their goodbyes and then suddenly, they were out in the bright sunshine and the car was here.


	3. The best-laid plans...

They never made it to the Palace at all. And they didn't even make it to the border with DAK that day. 

They were travelling in a helicopter gunship to the border when Mycroft received a telephone call, the contents of which made him first angry, then silent. It was more than ten minutes before he spoke at all to the tense occupants of the chopper, and not before he had given orders to the crew for them to turn around and return to the hotel.

John, though, was already struggling with something else: the simple fact of being back in a helicopter. The last time he had consciously travelled in one, it had been shot down and everyone else on board either died on impact, or murdered by their captors because they were too badly injured for them to want to bother with as hostages. John was the only survivor, and his mangled right arm was a legacy of that crash and the neglect and beatings that followed. 

Now, waiting for Mycroft to say something, anything, was unbearable for the former soldier. He could feel Sherlock's fingers moving rhythmically in circles, softly on his back. He knew, John thought. He was trying to soothe John, to get him through this trial. For John alone of the group, the fear was not of what they were to face when they got to hostile territory, but the waiting, and the chopper trip. He feared for Sherlock of course, but for himself, no. He just wanted to get in and get out, SAS style. Or not. But to get out of this chopper, either way.

Finally, Mycroft consented to speak.

'I am informed by the British Foreign Office that the whole of the capital has now fallen to the Islamists. The palace is a lost cause. We have been instructed that under no circumstances is any British national to enter a zone of 20 kilometres of the city boundary line.'

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment.

'Who has vetoed the mission, Mycroft. I thought you were all-powerful?'

'Almost, Sherlock. But only almost. Since you ask, I will say that it is an old friend of Mummy's who is also closely connected to the Prime Minister.'

Sherlock sniffed in a very unbecoming manner.

'You mean the Queen. Don't you, Mycroft? Mummy's childhood friend, Lilibet, the Queen.'

Mycroft inclined his long neck in acknowledgement.

'Indeed. It appears our mother may have been meddling, in the belief that, should the mission go ahead, both of her sons would be killed. So, she has used her contacts and influence, which as you are aware, remain considerable. Unfortunately, her influence extends to the only person who has the ability to stop me undertaking this trip. 

'I may be powerful, but a direct order from the sovereign is rarely given and it is not something even I can ignore. I have no wish to end my days in the Tower of London or with my head on a block.'

'We don't do that any more', said John, pale green in colour now, knowing this blasted chopper trip was abortive and a waste of time.

Mycroft sniffed. And smiled a twisted smile.

'Do we not, John? Ah yes, quite right...

... Not publicly, anyway...' 

John had no idea if Mycroft was joking or not. His jokes rarely had much of a punchline and sometimes fact was stranger and more sinister than fiction in Mycroft's weird and threatening world.

...................

'Why doesn't the Queen want us to do this trip, Mycroft?' Sherlock looked fierce.

'The Queen doesn't have a view, especially, she's following the PM’s advice. She's only articulating a view because Mummy has asked her as a special favour.'

'You're deliberately obfuscating. All right, let me rephrase for you. Why don't the Government want it?'

'Because, brother dearest, the British Government are planning, along with their "coalition of the willing" to shortly try to blast the heart out of the DAK insurgents, beginning with the capital and fanning outwards. Likely starting with the Palace. On that basis, assuming they are planning substantial bombing raids and not solely targeted drone strikes, it seems to them unwise for us to be in-situ at the time, a conclusion with which no sensible chap could disagree.'

John protested.

'But if they do that, they'll kill Wasim's wife, they'll kill the Crown Princess? And his son?

Mycroft looked away.

'Collateral damage, John. Come, come, you know all about that. They say that they are not sure that our two subjects are held there and that they cannot wait.'

John bristled.

'That's not collateral damage, Mycroft. That's knowingly and deliberately sacrificing innocent humans for the sake of some greater political and military advantage. Collateral damage is where someone is killed that you had no idea was there, or because the weapon misfired. Not this.'

Mycroft turned to him. His face now a terrible, stony facade. His voice when it came, a mere hiss.

'Do you not think I understand this, John? That I haven't made that exact argument? That I have begged to be allowed to find out if they are there and to try to get them out prior to any airstrikes? To save the wife and the child of the man I loved?'

And then more quietly. 'Of the man I love?'

John met Mycroft's gaze. He swallowed and nodded.

'Of course you have. Of course. I'm sorry. I don't mean to suggest that you would willingly put them in any danger.'

'Thank you, John. Now. I no longer wish to speak on this matter for the present. We will soon be back at the hotel. I intend to stay here overnight and at first light we will depart for our search for Wasim. If still alive, or if not, I intend to find him.'

They fell silent for the rest of the trip.

....................

When they woke, at dawn, there was no answer at Mycroft's hotel room. But it was the work of moments for Sherlock to employ his small set of skeleton keys, bypassing the electronic card entry system. He checked for any signs of hostile activity, any damage to the door, any sounds or smells and used a C02 detector to check for persons within. Nothing, at least not near the door. They opened the door and walked in slowly.

John frowned. He could see Sherlock's eyes narrow and dart quickly to take in the hotel room, assessing the situation.

John placed a hand on Sherlock's wrist.

'Let me in. Tell me what you're thinking.'

'It's obvious, John.'

'Aaah, yeah, ok. You don't change, do you. Ok, let me humour you. No, it's not obvious to me. Tell me.'

Sherlock whirled round to face John. His face looked pale.

'He lied to us. Not about the Government and the bombing, but about his willingness to obey the royal order. He's got no intention of leaving them, if they are there in the Palace. He's gone to try to get the wife and the child. By himself. To the centre of the extremist stronghold. It's suicidal. If they don't get him, the allied air strikes will.'

John swallowed hard.

'Why is he doing that instead of coming to rescue Wasim, the man was his lover for decades? He's never met his wife or the kid?'

Sherlock looked quite broken now.

'Because he has this thing about women and children. After Sherry. Also, he is an intelligent man. And it appears he has decided, that the probability is, that Wasim is already dead.'

John couldn't bear the expression on Sherlock's face as he said those words. All he could do was to envelope Sherlock into his embrace and hold him tight and fast and try to press into his whole flesh the comfort of his human sympathy. Sherlock did not cry, he rarely did about anything, save when he and John had seemed to be finished or Sherlock had lost control and relapsed into his drug taking. 

...............

Mycroft had covered his tracks well. He had taken arms and explosives which had been waiting for them in Amman, plus one of the two vehicles.

With heavy hearts and little chat, Sherlock and John finished loading the other jeep with their gear. They were less heavily armed. They didn't have a chance of outrunning the rogue bands of militia and jihadists, so they weren't going to try. Instead, they were going to speed in and out of the country as quietly and quickly as possible. 

The trouble was, no one knew exactly which direction Wasim had gone. But as they prepared to leave, the text alert sounded on Sherlock's phone. It was Anthea, who was coordinating the London end of ops. She told them that quiet soundings from trustworthy contacts in the region (a rapidly diminishing resource as they were either tortured, killed or fled in the rebel advances) had come up with a single elderly goatherd who reported seeing a 4x4 matching the description of the one Wasim left in. He couldn't read or write and couldn't point out the location on a map, but had agreed, on payment of a sum that would enable him to cease being a goatherd ever again, to show the Westerners the place.

Sherlock rang Anthea on the secure line. She sounded sad, but not surprised,when he told her that it would be John and he alone trying to follow up the lead.

'I guessed as much. I couldn't get him on his phone. And I know what his priorities would be. They always have been. What should I tell Tamara? She's very good at not demanding endless updates but she's worried sick.'

Sherlock shrugged. Other than his relationship with John, he didn't understand relationships very well. People were so peculiar. But he thought Tamara was the one person who could handle being in the picture fully.

'Tell her everything. She's signed the OSA, hasn't she? Good. Tell her it all. She needs to know what Mycroft is doing and why, that it's entirely his own initiative, if only so she is comfortable that his almost certain demise was the result of his own mission, with no outside pressure.'

Anthea wasn't used to sharing such a lot of detail with an 'outsider' as Sherlock was asking her to do. But she knew that Tamara was different, not only used to war zones and peril, but also trusted implicitly and completely by Mycroft. She agreed to Sherlock's suggestion, and he then told her that he and John were now leaving to try to secure Wasim. He could tell she was envious of them, would have wanted to be doing this herself, but also something steely in her voice made him realise she was facing the prospect of having to step into Mycroft's shoes and all that responsibility, if he never came home.

They said their goodbyes and then before they knew it Sherlock and John were driving out of Amman, out of the sprawling suburbs and onto the highway taking them to the border with DAK. 

They had no idea what they were going to find, or face.

................

The trip to the border was uneventful. The massive Toyota SUV was stuffed with every conceivable item of supplies, fuel, water and food. If they found Wasim, they were going to have to dump some of it to make room for him and for John to set up a mobile treatment station until they could get back to Jordan. Once back there, a military helicopter would whisk him back to RAF Brize Norton in Oxfordshire, and thence to the 'JR', the John Radcliffe Hospital, just a few miles from Oxford's dreaming spires, the scene of Sherlock's earliest drug-fuelled adventures.

Sherlock was driving. John was busy in the passenger seat, navigating and also, in between times, getting key items from his med kit ready for use. That meant ditching much of the packaging save for the final layer keeping it sterile. Cartons, leaflets and the like had to go. Wasim had waited too long to be rescued, every minute might count when they found him.

Sherlock didn't appear to have much a plan for getting through the border checkpoint between Jordan and DAK. John surmised he planned to try to bluff his way through in customary arrogant and entitled fashion. John also surmised that this approach was likely to get them both shot, not only because it would wind up the jumpy border guards, but also because the vehicle was likely to be searched, and their arms were not easily concealed, and as a result, not especially well-concealed.

So John told Sherlock to pull over a few miles from the border. And pointed to the map, jabbing his broad strong fingers along a dotted line running at a 45 degree angle to the baked dusty asphalt.

'Camel train trail. No Tarmac. Just sand, but there is some strengthening in unstable places. No idea if it's navigable by jeep. But we can't go in via the road route. And this way it takes us much closer to the wadi where Anthea was told the old man, the goatherd, would be for the next few days. See... It leads directly to it. It will cut off at least a day from the journey, down to maybe only two, maybe less.' 

Sherlock frowned and hummed.

'You don't think it's better to try the border crossing? If the route you suggest isn't navigable, the jeep will get stuck and we may die out there.'

John looked him straight in the eye, in the way he did when Sherlock was in the shape of needing direction, needing to submit and John reverted to his Army manner. In control, in charge, expert in his area.

'No. They would have to be extremely bad border guards to let us get twenty yards inside DAK. Two over privileged middle-aged white guys with arms and lots of tech in the jeep? Nah. Even if they let us through it will only be so that they don't have to see our faces as they spray the vehicle with bullets. Trust me. That way will get us killed for sure. This way we have a chance. There isn't an option without a real risk of death, either way is risky, but your way is suicidal.'

Sherlock was subdued.

'Oh.'

John smiled.

'It might be ok. The camel route might work. And it's faster and we need fast. If it does work, we still just need to hope that the goatherd wants his bounty more than he fears the insurgents, or else we may get there to find an unfriendly welcoming committee. But assuming he's trustworthy, he said the location of the 4x4 he saw was only about five miles away.'

Sherlock nodded.

'You're probably wondering why the goatherd didn't approach the vehicle.'

John pursed his lips.

'Could he tell there was no one alive?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'No. If that was the case then we'd be unlikely to be undertaking this mission. No. He didn't approach because he feared the vehicle was booby trapped. We will have to be careful in case the whole thing is a trap.'

John pointed to some kit in the back.

'Bomb disposal - basic stuff but it may be enough. I haven't been formally trained, just hung out with some of the guys. They are fucking brave. Them and the submariners and the Special services of course, those are the guys the regular units look at and realise their own courage pales. Couldn't do any of those jobs myself, not day after day. Not that they'd want me anyway...'

'I couldn't spare you', Sherlock sniffed, then kissed the top of John's head. His husband was happy, Sherlock realised with a start. Of course he was. John missed all this. The desert, the danger, the chance to make a difference. He'd had two chances at it, in the army and then for M16 doing Mycroft's extraction missions, but each time he'd ended up with injuries that meant he couldn't continue. This was, it dawned on Sherlock, John's likely final military-type mission and his final medical emergency to treat in the field. And he was in his element.

'Right John', he said, firing up the huge diesel engine of the hulk of a car. 'Tell me when we are a mile from the turnoff onto the camel trail. And pray that our gamble pays off.'


	4. Seeking the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John travel on, on their expedition into war-torn DAK to find out what has happened to Prince Wasim.

The start of the camel trail came into view, amidst an endless vista of pale sand and cloudless sky. John nudged Sherlock and pointed.

'That's it.'

Sherlock hummed and frowned. He dropped some speed.

'Are you sure? It looks more abandoned than anything. Could it be further on?'

John gave him a withering look. Sherlock knew he was on thin ice criticising his husband’s exceptional navigational skills. But John was as aware as he of the implications of a mistake, and so as Sherlock pulled the car over, John pored over the map and checked the GPS again.

'I'm sure. This is it.'

Sherlock frowned more deeply. What they were looking at was little more than a slight indentation in the sand and a slightly flatter surface than the surrounding ground. Yet this was the start of the trail, so ought to be the best and most-used section of the route. It didn't inspire confidence, to be quite honest and the idea of continuing on to the official border crossing, hostile guards and all, seemed preferable even more now than it had done before.

But he trusted John and he stood by him. So he said nothing more, though the silence of words unspoken was deafening and he put the jeep into gear and moved off, down the road and then slewing off onto the sand and stone and occasional dessicated clumps of camel dung.

.............

It was only the GPS that told them when they had reached the border between the relative safety of Jordan and the anarchy that was the DAK. They were travelling at an angle to the road, so that by the time they calculated they had crossed into DAK, they had travelled another two miles on top of the single mile they would have gone in a straight line. They hoped the border guards didn't have the most powerful binoculars, because they might just be visible in the distance. The land was undulating but not quite enough to keep them totally hidden. However the winds that were such a nuisance for navigation did at least mean that the sound of their engine wouldn't be heard. And so, in their desert camouflaged Toyota, they passed quietly into the country where Wasim and his family were prisoners, or sick, or dead.

The tension once they crossed the border rose silently but noticeably. Now they were much more exposed. Not only the western powers were using drones now, at least for reconnaissance. John tried to stay focused and decided to make conversation, as Sherlock seemed to be silent for hours at a time. 

'How do you think Mycroft got into DAK, Sherlock?'

'Probably in plain sight. He has agents, even in militias like these. Extraordinarily brave people. I imagine he's been smuggled in by them, under cover of darkness.'

John shrugged.

'We ideally would have come in at night too, but I wasn't confident on the navigation without daylight.'

'I know, neither of us knows the area well enough to do so. But Mycroft has had a special interest in the region for years, of course, because of Wasim. As a result Mycroft probably knows this country, especially the capital, better than many of those who have lived here all their lives and certainly better than any other Westerner.'

'Do you think that knowledge will help him get the family out?' John suddenly felt slightly more hopeful. Of course Mycroft would have an intimate knowledge of DAK. Then his spirits fell, as more than ever he realised that he and Sherlock didn't have that and that they were stirring a nest of snakes with a very naive and untrained stick.

Sherlock smiled at him. A faint smile, but it was there. 

'Oh yes. The chances are still slim, both of success, and of survival. But his expertise gives him a chance.'

They drove on. The trail was clear in some places, almost invisible in others. Several times they had to drive around in circles looking for the trail when it seemed to disappear altogether. But John, backed up by the GPS, seemed to gain in confidence the further they went. Sherlock glanced across at him periodically, at the set features, the furrowed brow and the weathered careworn face, deeply tanned already by the desert sun. "He's fantastic", Sherlock silently concluded, and hugged the thought to himself like a huge soft toy. "And brave and he's mine".

.............

So all day long, the noise of the jeep rumbled, until, at nightfall, they saw faint lights in the distance, tiny pinpricks that pierced the blackness and mirrored the incredible panorama of stars and the narrow sliver of moon glowing above them. It was the wadi. It couldn't be anything else. John was relieved that he'd got them this far.

Sherlock stretched in his seat as they drew up, bones cracking slightly after long hours sat in one place. Even with the air con, both their backs were sweaty and Sherlock licked his lips slightly as John got out of the car, shirt clinging to his muscled back, Sig hidden in his concealed holster. Sherlock wondered if there would be enough privacy, here, for them to be together. As if he could read his mind, John glanced back and grinned at him, then came round to his side of the car and opened the door.

'Come on Mr One-track-mind. Focus. This is a safer place than most, they're used to strangers and foreigners passing through, but a lot less safe than it once was. Your lewd thoughts need to stay in your head. We can't risk inciting any hostility until we're out of DAK.'

Sherlock nodded, duly chastened, which helped to quell his fledgling erection. He adjusted himself, picked up his haversack and followed John across the sand to the fires and tents of the encampment.

..................

There was only a little water here. Unlike an oasis, the wadi was full only in the rainy season and that had ended weeks ago. However, there was a small pool and in a desert, this was still a magnet for travellers, nomads and traders, as well as the two erstwhile occupants of 221B Baker Street.

John counted about a dozen pairs of dark eyes watching them as they approached. Eyes narrowed to slits by the scorching sun and skin naturally dark but darker still from its unrelenting rays. John hovered, his Pashto of little use here and his Arabic very scratchy.  
Sherlock did not seem to share his reticence. He walked confidently forward, beckoning John to follow, and began jabbering away, his hands suddenly animated and gesturing. John couldn't understand what he was saying, but he could tell Sherlock was speaking Arabic and it sounded like he was doing so fluently. Before he had a chance to take in this new string to his husband's bow, Sherlock was back by his side.

'They say we can camp over there, beyond the second campfire. And fill our water containers at the pump just beyond that. They have goat stew we can eat too, to save our supplies. Let's get set up and then we can eat.'

'What about the goatherd?'

'Hassan? He will be here, they say, but not until later. His legs don't carry him as fast as the others. And he prefers to dine on fermented goat cheese and dark bread on his way, rather than eat communally. They think about an hour, or two, should see him here.'

'It will be dark then. How will he find his way?'

'He has walked this desert for over sixty years, they told me. And if he forgot the way, his goats know the way, they know there's water for them here. The nannies pass the knowledge down to the kids, like hefted sheep do in Cumbria about their herd's spot on the fells. Sheep and goats might look dumb, but they're clever as a button when survival depends on it.'

John nodded.

'Guess we better get this tent up then, before these genius goats appear?'

..............

They ate by the light of flickering oil lamps and the stew was welcome as the night grew colder minute by minute. John had grown used to this climate, searing heat by day, freezing chill at night, but Sherlock was new to it. Language skills didn't keep you warm and the stew only went so far. His teeth chattered. John pulled out one of his sweaters from the bag. Shetland wool, not Sherlock's usual cashmere, but much, much warmer. Sherlock looked at the garment like it might emit gamma particles and sniffed slightly, but at John's pointed look clearly thought better of pending his mouth to object. He wriggled into it. The arms and length were too short and the neck was too big. Sherlock was in his mid forties, hair starting to grey, but other than this, he looked about eight years old in John's jumper. John wanted to hug him, but thought better of it in this company. Instead he winked at Sherlock, who scowled hugely back at him.

After dinner, John distributed sweet pastries from a giant paper bag. The hotel had provided them and they were delicious. At least, payment having been refused, they had contributed to the hospitality.

No one asked them why they were there. No one demanded to know why two Westerners would be heading into a war zone rather than fleeing it. Why they would voluntarily come to this place and eat stew and pastries and wait to talk to an illiterate elderly goat herder rather than stay in London. Nobody asked, but at the same time, everyone wondered, silently speculated, even deduced...

..................

It was past ten o'clock at night when Hassan the goat man arrived. They heard him coming long before they saw him, the high tinkling sound of his small and rather pathetic herd of motley beasts preceding him, the sound carrying for more than a mile across the darkness.

At last, a tiny wizened man, with a face comprised of little more than sun creases and few obvious teeth, padded into the camp, barefoot and clearly exhausted.

He would take no food but did accept some water and drank deeply, although not before he had seen to his goats and made sure they were watered and fed with the meagre forage he had strapped to his back. John counted eight goats. Unless they were fed better, there might be fewer than that even by morning, he reckoned.

Sherlock managed to catch the old man as he went outside the camp to do a last check on his goats. John glimpsed them as the shadows swallowed them up. Sherlock talking in a low whisper. The goatherd was frowning as he disappeared from view.

..........................

When they returned, Sherlock looked pleased and John felt relieved by it. They said their goodnights and retired to their tent.

Sherlock was upbeat.

'First light. He'll take us there, but then leave us to make our own way back.'

John looked uncomfortable. 'Why can't he wait and bring us back?'

'He says he has a bad feeling. He will take us within sight of the vehicle, but then he goes.'

'Did you offer him money? Couldn't he be persuaded?'

'I offered him more money than he's ever seen in his life. He said no. He will accept a generous fee for guiding us there, but after that we are on our own.'

John was annoyed.

'Superstitious claptrap. It's ridiculous!'

Sherlock put his hand over John's.

'Is it? If you roamed the desert alone for years, wouldn't some superstition make a lot more sense than so-called science relying on things you can't see? Plus he's scared of the insurgents finding out he's helped Westerners, in any capacity, so he wants to get away as soon as he can. I think he's a brave man, who knows his time is limited and so is prepared to take a risk, but we can't ask him to increase that risk. Anyway. I have complete faith in my navigator.'

John conceded a slight smile.

'Suppose you're right. We'd better get some rest if we're off at first light.'

Retiring to their tent, undressing only to their underclothes and in separate sleeping bags, only the contact of chest (John) to back (Sherlock) marked their relationship as anything beyond friendship. They slept deeply and soundly, until the buzz of Sherlock's phone roused them an hour before the first light of dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes to this chapter
> 
> Again, I have alluded to a favourite bit of writing. In this case, it comes with the phrase 'So all day long, the noise of the jeep rumbled.' This is a reference to the poem 'Morte D'Arthur' by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. 'So all day long the noise of battle roll'd'. It also contains fab lines about a 'dark strait of barren land' ' a broken chancel with a broken cross' and many more.


	5. The Day the Desert Gave Up its Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John travel across the desert, and reach the vehicle the goatherd Hassan had spotted in the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a pivotal chapter really, and quite intense...

Next morning, the men breakfasted on dates and the remaining pastries. The pastries were now undeniably hard and very dry, the best food rarely keeps long, like the finest flower blooms, or a spectacular dawn. But accompanied by strong black coffee, they made for a more than adequate meal, even if Sherlock did sniff a little. Spoiled, John thought fondly, and ignored the Entitled One.

The goatherd was impatient; having corralled his stock in an unfeasibly flimsy-looking hurdle pen, which the goats were already gazing at in speculative plotting, he was keen to finish this unorthodox and dangerous job as quickly as possible. John fed the goats some broken digestive biscuits he'd found squashed at the bottom of his haversack and they gobbled them up, licking their lips noisily and nudging him insistently for more. He thought they were great, those goats, fascinating. Weird eyes, but then... he was used to pushy upstarts with weird eyes, wasn't he, so he was uniquely well-qualified. He thought if Sherlock was a goat, he would be a melanistic Angora, all soft corkscrew curls, impossibly lustrous, if slightly bizarre, though with the temperament and lithe body of a feral mountain goat, perching on a crag, just like he'd done on Dartmoor when sighting Baskerville.

Maybe if Sherlock had his bees one day, John mused, he could be allowed to have a goat or two? A nanny, to milk, with a kid for company. Couldn't be an Angora for that, they were all about fine yarn and not about milk. Perhaps an Anglo Nubian, then or, better, a Golden Guernsey whose output was more manageable and were both gentle and rare. He'd have to keep it away from Sherlock's stuff, though. Sherlock had a very expensive straw Panama that he'd treasured since Eton, for example. It was one you could roll up to pack and it sprang right back into shape like magic again afterwards. John could just see it now, the remains of the hat sticking out of the nanny goat's smiling mouth and Sherlock blowing a gasket at John about it. Striding around, slamming doors and throwing things. Blowing things up, if he got really cross.

Yeah. A goat. That could be a Thing. He whistled softly as he slung his pack back onto his shoulder and strolled back to the jeep, where Sherlock was beginning to look impatient and Hassan the goatherd was looking like their car was the least welcome place for a man such as himself to be right now.

..............

They would not reach their destination that day. They stopped for lunch by the shade of a rare large rock outcrop, but after that it seemed as if they were driving on endlessly, with breaks only for refuelling from the numerous cans lashed into the cargo boot and for natural breaks. The frequency of these were consistent with sappy Englishmen experiencing a dramatic change of diet and local microbial life. These toilet stops were a source of irritation for John, since Sherlock and Hassan had no concerns about pissing and shitting in the open, whereas John, though happy with the former, was more circumspect about the latter and would have preferred a little privacy. If he'd wanted to shit in public or into plastic bags or any of that kind of thing, he'd have been born earlier and spent his army days hiding in the ditches of South Armagh in Northern Ireland during the Troubles, trying to spot IRA men plotting murder or gun-running instead of being shot in Helmand... However, his complaints were ignored.

That night, they pitched camp near a large dune, incongruous in its solitude in the vast flat landscape. Hassan amused himself carving intricate figures from a collection of bits of wood he somehow produced from about his person. They were exquisite and took many hours. He managed to tell them in broken English that the dune was not natural but had formed over centuries on top of what were fabled to be some ancient stone tombs built here, tombs of Hellenistic minor royalty. John asked why no excavations had taken place and Hassan acted out a bomb going off and a gun being fired. Eventually they understood that not only didn't the locals want the tombs disturbed as they regarded them as their property and sacred, but also that the area had always been a semi-autonomous region of DAK, poor and somewhat lawless. The risks of a Western-sponsored dig had always been judged too great. Besides, most Westerners still thought it was a natural dune. They could tell by Hassan's expression how stupid he thought that particular notion was.

...............

John and Sherlock sat closely together, near to the campfire, feeling the cold more than Hassan did, despite his greater age. Sherlock had been quiet all through this trip and as they got closer to their destination, he became more monosyllabic still.

John knew that the reality of this was now inescapable. What they were here to do, most likely. John was used to seeing injury and death, and knew Wasim only as an acquaintance. He liked him and respected his high moral standards and his courage, but he didn't pretend that he really knew the man well.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had experienced physical and mental closeness with the Prince, not only knowing him better as a person, but having been close to him in the most intimate of respects. Short of intercourse, or maybe even including that, to have been beaten by someone a number of times, to have travelled to subspace and back with them, was as deep as it got, John knew. 

Add to that the adoration of decades that his brother Mycroft felt for Wasim and Sherlock's trepidation became intelligible, natural even.

...................

The tents were pitched some way apart that night, Hassan liked to be out in the desert rather than close by the fire. Sherlock and John were relieved by the distance, as it meant they could embrace and kiss in their tent, pitched closer to the fire's warmth and as inevitably as night follows the day, John pushed Sherlock back onto his sleeping bag and took Sherlock's long slender length into his mouth. Then, hushing him from making a sound, he sucked and swallowed him until Sherlock's hands were clasping and unclasping the fabric of the sleeping bag, and his head was tossing from side to side, a single shining drop of sweat gathering on his neck.

Sherlock needed this moment of distraction, this gift of release and when it came, like a wave gathered into the next before hitting the rocks, he gave a groan he could not suppress, but which John skilfully muffled both with his mouth on Sherlock's and the tactic of simultaneously knocking over a pile of metal objects. The satisfying crash lasted long enough for John's other hand to bring himself off, too, though he managed to limit his vocalising to a grunt which made Sherlock smile sleepily.

John suspected Hassan would still know what they were doing. If he didn’t, he must think them bloody clumsy in their sleep. However he suspected Hassan had seen most things in his long life and probably gave up being outraged by them some decades ago. Besides, he was being paid enough to keep his mouth shut, at least they hoped so. They fell asleep hand in hand.

...........

It was near lunchtime the following day when John placed a hand softly on Sherlock's arm, and warned him that they were within a few miles of their destination. Hassan nodded his agreement. They stopped the vehicle and the slight figure of the goatherd climbed out. He carried only a small pack, mainly of water carriers and did not seem at all perturbed by the idea of walking back a distance that had taken them a day and a half to drive.

'Walk, night', he said, making small gestures with his fingers. 'Sleep day. Eat dates. Back before you men.'

They looked doubtfully at each other, but nodded. They figured that however mad Hassan sounded to them, he knew this area much better than they did.

Sherlock handed over the agreed sum, enough to see those miserable goats well provided for, Hassan too, well into the old man's dotage. He clasped his hands together in a gesture of prayer for their quest and then waving a hand, padded off across the sands, worn sandals slapping against the grainy sand.

John looked at Sherlock, and saw him swallow.

'Are you ready then?'

Sherlock looked back at him. John couldn't see his eyes, as sunglasses obscured them. Maybe that was deliberate. But his mouth was set firm, a thin line of tension and fear.

'Of course, John. That's what we're here for. Let's get this done, shall we?'

And they drove on.

............

The vehicle was still there.

At first the vehicle appeared as no more than a speck on the horizon, more a part of the rock nearby, it seemed, but as they drew closer the shape of the truck revealed itself. A Range Rover, John concluded. White. Less than a year old. Very expensive.

And with quite a lot of sand blown onto it.

John swallowed hard, but the lump in his throat wouldn't shift. He didn't dare look at Sherlock.

They drew up slowly, the sedate pace Sherlock slowed to, reminding John of hearses in a funeral procession. He told himself to shut up, even though he hadn't said anything.

John expected to be the first to approach the vehicle, as the doctor, but Sherlock indicated that he should stay back. Sherlock got out of their car and walked slowly over to the Range Rover.

John also climbed out, but stayed standing by the Toyota.

As Sherlock got to the large white car, he cleared sand from the side window with his hand. As he looked in, he seemed to visibly crumple from his legs up and he sank to his knees in the sand, his head sinking to the floor, arms cradling himself. He made no sound, nor did John need him to.

There was no need for a doctor's services here, he knew. No one could help Wasim now.

............

John waited several minutes, giving Sherlock some privacy before he dared to walk slowly forward and place his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He felt the flesh trembling violently beneath his touch.

He looked into the vehicle.

There was not one body. There were two. Two bodies. Wasim, he assumed, in the passenger seat. A young woman in the back, slumped over. His wife? Princess Zahia?

The bodies were partially decomposed, his more than hers, but it was clear that they had met violent deaths. Both had their throats cut. Unlikely to be murder suicide then, at the Prince's hand. They had been murdered, both of them.

John swallowed hard. Then he looked harder and drawing Sherlock's attention, he brought his fingers to his lips. Listened hard. Heard nothing. Then listened again.

A faint sound. John opened the car door, covering his face with his T shirt and trying to cope with the smell of decaying flesh. The sweet, sickly smell hit him like a wall and he was instantly back in the rebel camp after his M16 helicopter was shot down. Back in the camp with his smashed arm, being beaten. Back in the camp being raped into unconsciousness. His arm infected, the flesh decomposing before his eyes as gangrene set in. No memory of Anthea and the other commandos landing a chopper and plucking him out.

John had coped with many sights, sounds and smells in his time in the military and the medical field, but now he staggered back, hyperventilating and trying to stop panic and nausea overwhelming him. He tried to speak as Sherlock staggered to his feet to support him. Eventually he got the words out.

'Sound. Under her. Lift her - it - body. Cover your hands. Quickly.'

Sherlock flinched at the idea, but snatched up the bags that had held the dates and crackers they had eaten for lunch from the Jeep. He wound a rag around his head and face to act as a rudimentary mask and he dug some mints and a Vicks jar out of the car glovebox compartment. Throwing four extra-strong mints in his mouth and wiping the menthol ointment generously under his nose, he took a single deep breath and then leaned into the back seat of the Range Rover, averting his eyes from Wasim's corpse in the front seat.

The back seat wasn't much better. You couldn't tell now that this had been a beautiful young woman. Not any more. Decomposition was fast in these temperature. It was horrible and it was indescribably sad. But then Sherlock, too heard a noise faintly above the sound of John retching into the sand, and he gritted his teeth and lifted the slumped corpse upright.

And underneath where the rotting flesh had been, there was a baby. A living baby. Weak and dehydrated, but alive. A boy.

Sherlock swore and shouted for John to come because 'A BABY, JOHN. WHAT DO WE DO? IT MUSTN'T DIE. HE'S ALL THAT'S LEFT.'

And then he burst into tears and thrust the poor mite at John, who was still wiping vomit flecks from his clothes and ran to the Jeep and sat in the driver's seat, staring out into the miles and miles of nothingness with blank eyes.

..........

The line to London via the satellite phone was poor, but they managed to make themselves understood once Sherlock was recovered enough to speak. Sherlock had to make the call, despite his distress, because John was now in doctor mode, completely occupied setting up a makeshift drip and trying to stop the baby deteriorating more than he had already. 

Sherlock had been puzzled by the situation. Why was the baby still alive, if both his parents had been dead for days? For once, John was the observant one and Sherlock had missed something major, distracted by sentiment.

'Look', John said, pointing through the window at the sealed in decomposing remains. 'She's a lot less far along than he is. And although both of their throats have been cut, there's barely any blood from his wound, and buckets of it plus spray from hers. He's been killed some time before that happened. Can't tell how without a PM, maybe not even then, not with the state of them. But I'd wager good money that Wasim died first here and some time later his wife came searching with the child. The rebels made up a story about holding her to cover the embarrassment of her slipping away. When they subsequently caught up with her, hoping to kill them both, he was dead already. Either they forgot about the child in their annoyance at Wasim beating them to it, or something spooked them before they could murder him. I can't think they had second thoughts, though it's possible.'

Sherlock looked at John.

'Do you think Wasim killed himself? Because of Mycroft? Because of the insurgents closing in?'

John shrugged his shoulders.

'I don't know. And I'm not sure it matters now. What matters is that we get the hell out of this country pronto with this kid and keep him alive. And that we pull Mycroft out from his pointless quest before he's tonight's headlines on Al-Jazeera and CNN. That is, if he isn't already.'

...............

Sherlock was speaking to London.

Sherlock had rarely heard Anthea rattled. He entire job, her whole life, was devoted to not being rattled. But he detected a very slight tension in her voice when after several security checks he was put through to her direct line.

She told them to get back to the wadi and that a helicopter gunship would come and pick them up from there. They should ditch the car and it would be dealt with.

John queried why this was necessary and Anthea paused before replying.

'It appears that your presence in the area has been... noticed. It would be best if you left as quickly and quietly as you can. We can ensure that from the wadi but can't risk coming any further in.'

'What about Mycroft?' Sherlock interrupted with this.

'He needs to be told about this and we need to get him out. But it's not going to be easy.'

Sherlock scowled at his phone.

'Why not? You tell him his targets are not in-situ and scoop him up and away. Simples.'

There was a slightly hollow laugh at the other end of the phone.

'No scooping possible, Sherlock. He's in the thick of things. We can't send anything in, nor can we risk calling him. We can only wait until he deems it safe enough to call us.'

'And what if that point never comes?'

'Then he won't be coming back.'

John saw Sherlock's face go grey, as he stumbled back from the phone. He grabbed the phone with one hand and Sherlock with the other. Anthea quickly repeated what she had told Sherlock and at once John understood.

Looking at Sherlock's grey and set features he also suspected that Sherlock was going to go after his brother and likely insist that John not come with him, but instead ensure the safe passage of the only surviving member of Wasim's immediate family.

John wondered if Sherlock would reconsider if he asked him to. Asked him, as his husband, not to do this. And then wondered if, as his husband, he could even ask him not to do it, given the sacrifice Mycroft had made for their son.

He spoke quickly and quietly to Anthea. Then after the call ended, he embraced Sherlock. Holding tight against that beloved bony, tightly muscled back. In the end, both of their pairs of shoulders were silently shaking and John pulled Sherlock around so that he could draw him close, just for a few minutes, just until John had to once more go to tend to the baby, and Sherlock make mental plans for his ridiculous mission.

John thought Sherlock might as well have gone to Eastern Europe after Magnusson, as try this job and wondered what he would tell Sherlock and Mycroft's parents if he came home alone, with only a baby who only understood Arabic and who shivered in the chill of Eaton Square or Baker Street.

A lonely prince whose Kingdom was gone and with a price on his head.

They didn't even know his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There is a wind where the rose was,  
> Cold rain where sweet grass was  
> And clouds, like sheep  
> Stream o'er the steep  
> Grey skies where the lark was.
> 
> Nought gold where your hair was,  
> Nought warm where your hand was,  
> But phantom forlorn  
> Beneath the thorn  
> Your ghost where your face was.
> 
> Sad winds where your voice was,  
> Tears, tears where my heart was  
> And ever with me,  
> Child, ever with me,  
> Silence where hope was.
> 
> WALTER DE LA MERE 'Autumn'  
> 1873-1956
> 
> NOTES
> 
> Music for this chapter
> 
> Desert Rose - Sting
> 
> In a Week - Hozier (feat. Karen Cowley)


	6. Return to Amman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John finish their business in the DAK desert, and return to Amman, Jordan

John was on the telephone to Anthea again. Sherlock was a bizarre sight, becoming sunburned now, he was propped against their vehicle's front tyre, tiny weak baby in his arms. He was whispering the words to the old Irish folk song, "Polly Vaughan" into the baby's ear. John thought that choice a little depressing for a sick and newly-orphaned infant, concerning as they did a young man shooting his sweetheart dead, after mistaking her cloaked figure for a swan when he was out wildfowling in the mist and dusk... But the melody was haunting and sad and it matched the mood, so he understood what Sherlock was doing. 

It was a lament both for the baby boy and for Sherlock himself, for Wasim, for Mycroft and for Zahia who had been married to Wasim just less than a year. Just a year, before she paid with her life, for her association with a man who had been both beautiful and good, but who had despite his privilege, been born into the worst possible place and time for someone such like him. 

John had never heard Sherlock singing before, not properly. His voice was pure and low, sweet even and John wondered why he didn't sing at home. He couldn't remember Sherlock singing to their own children. Perhaps this small one was special, because he had literally no one but them?

...............

John took the opportunity while Sherlock was occupied with his misery dirge, to talk in a low voice to Anthea about distressing but necessary matters. Chief amongst these was what should be done now with the two bodies in the Range Rover?

Anthea had clearly thought about this, as her answer was prepared and crisp as her suits.

'There are two options. The first is to torch the car. That would rule out any possibility of the bodies being desecrated by the insurgents once they reach the area in large numbers.'

It was a reasonable suggestion, but even as she said this, John was shaking his head. He might not have always thought kindly of Wasim, at least in the early days, but he had grown to respect him both for his high moral standards and his political views and he couldn't stomach the idea of watching him go up in flames. (Let alone what Sherlock might have to say on the subject). Besides, they couldn't guarantee the right intensity of heat to do a thorough job, and a badly done one didn't bear thinking about. No. That wasn't the answer.

'Out of the question. What's the other option? I realise the bodies aren't going to be easy to recover, this far gone.'

Anthea sniffed.

'No indeed. The other option may not be much more palatable, John. We want you to leave the bodies in situ, car doors open, to allow the wildlife to strip the bones of all flesh and organs. Granted, it is somewhat more akin to a Zoroastrian approach than an Islamic ritual, but in this case the chances of a prompt and observant Muslim burial have long gone and his remains will be a terrorist target if they stay there for too long. We will commission Hassan the goatherd to bring the bones back to the wadi in a few weeks time, if they are still sufficiently intact and they, or whatever's left, will be flown to the UK for subsequent cremation or burial. Probably at Holmes Manor, if Mycroft wishes it. I think he might.'

................

John winced.

'You weren't joking about unpalatable, were you? Fucking hell. Two things. One, won't Mycroft be horrified about that plan? Two, we don't know who has killed Wasim and why, or if it was suicide. Without a post mortem examination, we will never know the truth.'

Anthea hummed a little.

'Can't you, I don't know, do whatever chopping up you need to do there?

'The thing is, John, I know you want to be a good doctor and Sherlock wants to be a good detective, but in all honesty we are just not going to be sending an aircraft into your location right now, in order to collect an oozing corpse or two. The situation in DAK is way beyond the point now, where why they died is of much importance to the UK, in fact, it's just one less vulnerable asset we have to try to extract or protect. That's the bleak and unsavoury truth of it. There's zero chance of finding the perpetrators in current circumstances. All that matters now, is stopping yet another Arab state falling into the hands of those whose capacity for barbarity and terrorising the population is jaw-dropping in its cruelty.'

John shook his head.

'Even if that means Mycroft never knows whether his lover killed himself, or was murdered?'

'Yes, John', said Anthea, firmly. 'Even if that's what it means. Mycroft is a very powerful man, but his interests and those of the UK state are not invariably synonymous and when they are not, as now, I'm very much afraid that our country's interests come a clear first.'

John's upper lip quirked.

'This isn't a grubby little coup d'état within MI6, is it Anthea? You trying to elbow Mycroft aside? Old dog has had his day, and all that? A new broom, sweeping through?'

The reply came, cool and unperturbed and impossible to decipher.

'Not at all, John. Don't be childish. Mycroft understands that Britain's interests are pre-eminent over personal ties. That's what we do, what we're here for. We couldn't be effective agents if we didn't buy into that. Not me, not Mycroft, not any of our people. You can learn all the tradecraft in the world, but unless one understands and accepts that as the first law of espionage, one has no place in this Service, past, present or future.'

'Mmm', said John, clearly not entirely convinced. 'One will talk to his Lordship here and then One will come back to you.'

'Very well, John. But do it quickly, and drop the snark, because you need to get on the move or you risk the insurgents catching up with you.'

...............

If anything, Sherlock's pre-existing distress was only compounded by what John had to say to him concerning his discussions with Anthea. His face grew paler, the tan from the baking sun seeming to grey and his normally flashing eyes dull and hooded. But he knew that Anthea was right, that they couldn't take the corpses with them, not only because of the state of them, but also because they would be travelling with the baby.

John also estimated the boy was about two months old, and he'd asked Anthea to research whether this was indeed Wasim's son. He'd been married for just under a year, so it was possible, but if it was his kid, that hadn't been publicised much. Though of course that could be because Wasim himself was seen as an embarrassment. Nearly all of the DAK population had access to the Internet and while Wasim had tried to keep a relatively low profile, the presence of a man as rich and beautiful as he at certain society events, had not gone unnoticed by the gossip columns of Tatler and Country Life.

In the end, they had to make a decision so they could get moving at nightfall. John only had enough special hydration and nutritional fluids for the baby to last them until they reached the wadi. They hadn't been expecting the child at all and certainly not alive. He'd had to ask Anthea to ensure their transport plane or chopper was carrying extra supplies. They had to make a decision, and they had to go.

..................

They could not bring themselves to burn the bodies. It seemed plain wrong to do it when they couldn't guarantee crematorium-level temperatures and also would send a tell-tale plume of smoke high into the air. 

They couldn't do it anyway, though, they knew that. Not to a friend.

So they took the second option. Neither spoke to the other the whole time. Neither wanted to. Neither could. They opened up the sunroof, the boot and all the doors using the keys still in the ignition. John fetched a container of water and sterile gloves and they removed from the decomposing bodies the personal effects and jewellery, anything of value, anything that identified the remains. They hated doing it and both of them were sick, not just from the dreadful smell and touching flesh like this, but from the way they felt they were inflicting a final indignity on friends. They removed the car keys, not wanting to make life easier for the rebels.

.....................

After they were done and they had tried to wash the corruption from themselves, that smell that clung to them and just wouldn't shift, they took a few minutes to compose themselves. John fed and changed the baby. He looked over at Sherlock whose head was in his hands and shook his head.

'We come into the world alone, naked and crying, Sherlock and we all go out of it the same way. Wasim was who he was, in life and in his death and this ghastly scene doesn't take anything away from him.'

Sherlock looked away.

'I know. I know. It doesn't make it any easier to bear, John. Sentiment. God, I loathe it sometimes. Also not helping, to be truthful, is the fact that Mycroft doesn't know about any of this.'

John nodded.

'I know. It must be doubly hard for you, the loss of this man you cared for and knowing how Mycroft will mourn him.'

They fell silent. Eventually, there being so very little else to say, they packed up the Toyota in silence once more and prepared to leave. Before they did so, at sundown, both spent a few minutes alone with the bodies. John tried prayer, because he was a kind man and although he wasn't at all sure he believed there was actually anything up there, he know Wasim certainly did. Despite the challenge of his sexuality, Wasim was a devout Muslim all the years Mycroft had known him and John tried, on the dead couple's behalf, to offer prayers to the Prophet, adding the epithet 'Peace be upon him' to every mention of His name and prostrating himself, facing east.

Sherlock took a different approach. No prayers from him. He respected others' rights to believe what they wished, whether that was in Jesus, Allah, the Devil or the second coming of Whitney Houston. Despite this and despite his deep regard for Wasim, for him there was no point in prayer, because in his eyes, all believers were deluded. His view was bleaker, but beautiful in its own way. In Sherlock's eyes, we were all formed from atoms and back to atoms we return. We never die, because atoms never die, they simply transform into another state, another purpose. All of us are immortal in that sense and there is simply no need for a Heaven and Hell to fulfil that destiny.

So instead, Sherlock sat and talked quietly. Close to the bodies, closer than John had managed. John wasn't sure if he was talking to Wasim's memory or just talking to himself, but John knew either way, this was important for his husband and waited quietly until he was silent.

As the last fingers of burnt orange light flickered and sank below the horizon, darkness suddenly descending as it does in the desert, with little dusk, they finally left the piteous scene, abandoning the bodies to the eagles and vultures, already circling overhead menacingly.

As the car tyres skittered away across the sand, the metal tomb of the Range Rover with its royal occupants was swallowed up by the ink-dark blackness of the desert night. Something screeched. There was no one left alive here to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polly Vaughan
> 
> The song that Sherlock was whispering to the baby appears in many different melodies and titles. Sometimes the name is Molly not Polly, and the surname can be Avon, Vaughn or Vaughan. Either way, my very favourite version by FAR is that by the little known Hilary James  
> Album Burning Sun by Hilary James (1993)  
> https://itun.es/gb/8HjCA


	7. Restraint, repetition, release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John reach Amman. And prepare to go after Mycroft. This involves some quietening of Sherlock's racing mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sex, including elements of plain play.

It had taken them a full day and a half to travel from the wadi to the scene of desolate tragedy. They made it back in two-thirds of the time, travelling at night and at top speed. This was both to try to outrun the Islamist units patrolling the area and also to get the baby to better medical facilities as quickly as possible. 

The speed did, however, make for an uncomfortable journey and in the end, John had to rig up a makeshift hammock in the back of the vehicle for the baby, to counteract the violent lurches and thumps. He strapped him in tight, almost swaddling him, to ensure he didn't fly out of his new arrangement if they hit an unseen boulder. Not ideal when John wasn't happy with his breathing, but he couldn't think of another better option right now. Sometimes, medicine was the art of the possible, and of speed.

Setting off at dusk, it was just before nightfall the following day when they made the call to Anthea to say they were approaching the wadi. Once they got there, they were instructed to leave the Toyota keys with Hassan and to follow the goat herder to the assigned RVP.

About twenty minutes after they started following Hassan, they reached a dry river valley several miles from the wadi, a low thudding noise started and within a minute they saw a speck in the distance, which as it came closer was revealed to be a small military helicopter. "Another fucking chopper", thought John nauseously, "Great. Just great." But he knew this was the quickest way out and less likely to be disrupted by weather conditions than a fixed wing alternative.

They climbed in, the baby still attached to a drip. The poor mite had been quieter than John would have liked, except his noisy shallow breathing. They hadn't had any nappies, either, making do with makeshift alternatives, including bandage slings stuffed with toilet roll and, when those were exhausted, kitchen towels, the available female sanitary kit stashed on board and even the stuffing from one of the sleeping bags. Now, however, they had the luxury of a plump pack of disposable nappies and John heaved a deep sigh of relief at the sight of them. Ironically, no sooner had he got the baby into a proper nappy than the mite began to cry inconsolably...it didnt last long, as he was too weak even to cry for long.

The flight seemed very quick, but then they were exhausted and devoured by grief and so they slumped together as far as their safety harness belts allowed. John, half-asleep, raked his fingers softly through Sherlock's hair without waking him. They were back at the hotel within hours and were surprised to see two female figures in the hotel foyer, rather than just one, because standing next to Tamara, was Anthea. Sherlock had never seen her look more serious, grave almost. Tamara was often serious looking, but she too had a look of cold carved marble about her, serene but chilled with worry and care.

....................

It only occurred to John as they walked into the hotel foyer that not only did they look like vagrants, but they were also carrying a small Arab baby, a baby they had certainly not mentioned when they originally checked in...

Anthea seemed to read their minds. She said nothing, just beckoned to a corner and a young woman appeared, expensively clad in the finest traditional dress. Sherlock and John's phones both pinged. They looked down, to find they both had a text message to say that this was a stand-in for the baby's mother. They should call her Samina. Her real name... Not Samina. She was in "our" employ and could be trusted with impunity. "Act as if you know her but don't be familiar, this isn't London."

Sherlock and John fell into their role, chatting politely but formally with the young lady who came over to take the baby from John, who felt strangely and unexpectedly bereft by his loss. He suddenly thought of Parthalan and Ishbel, back in London, waiting for them. The thought of them sent a sudden shiver up his spine.

..............

That night, Sherlock and John were able to rest after the trauma and trials of their expedition. They ate dinner alone in Sherlock's suite, afterwards sleeping for a short while. Then they bathed in the huge jacuzzi bath and once scrubbed clean, they made love in the tub, so that then they had to get clean all over again. This happened a lot.

Later, lying together in bed, John saw that Sherlock's face had grown grave. Anthea was due to brief them on Mycroft in the morning, insisting they rest first and John suspected that Sherlock's low mood was due to fears about what she was likely to reveal.

A further glance at his husband, now curled up tight into a ball of pure misery and John decided that despite their fatigue, Sherlock was dropping far and hard, and to pull him up to a place where he could function and see out this whole drama, John needed to intervene.

'Sherlock, love. Do you need me to help you?' John ran a finger gently down Sherlock's arm and leaned in for a small soft kiss to his shoulder.

Sherlock said nothing, but looked at John with an expression of pure gratitude and nodded wearily.

'What do you need?'

'Restraint, repetition, release, recreational narcotics', Sherlock mumbled.

John frowned.

'The first three I can do. The fourth you know is not on the table. Nothing here is anything other than medicinal. And I'm not dosing you with anything.'

Sherlock scowled, but made no attempt to persuade John, which was surprising. Instead, he lay back and held out his hands. John shook his head.

'Strip first.'

................

Sherlock never took his eyes from John as he slowly undressed. He was in front of a full length free-standing mirror - the Middle East seemed very keen on a lot of gold and marble and even more mirrors, bevelled and huge. Here, that was a distinct advantage, because John could see not only Sherlock's figure facing him, but also the beauty of his rear, much curvier than the front. Almost like two different people, in some respects. Spare and wiry, compared with plush and juicy. John wondered once again what someone who looked like "That" was doing with someone who looked just OK, maybe nice, but basically just OK, like him. He'd long since had to accept that he'd never really know the answer, beyond that of inexplicable, amazing, wonderful love.

...............

Finally Sherlock stood gloriously nude before him, all pale skin up to his neck and a light tan above that. His cock stood at half mast, rosy pink and shining with intention. John resisted the temptation to walk over and lean down and take that gorgeous straining thing right into his mouth, tempting though it was. That wasn't what Sherlock needed, a quick blow job. Not tonight.

John fetched some items out of the suitcase while Sherlock settled himself down on his knees at the foot of the bed. Then John made a phone call. Within ten minutes of Sherlock becoming still and quiet, there was a soft knock at the door. John answered and quiet murmured conversation ensued.

Once Sherlock was comprehensively restrained to both his and John's satisfaction, but John had not answered Sherlock's searching questioning gaze as to what a young Arab man was doing in their suite, a blackout blindfold was added.

Sherlock's answer to his question came by non-verbal means with the silky slither of a soft flogger across the back of his thighs. Ah. Ahhhhhh. This was the plan. Sherlock sighed with deep exhaustion and relief. He needed this.

..................

Farouk was in the room for just over an hour. By turns he was cajoling and strict, massaging and striking, soft spoken and harsh worded. Sherlock came, unusually for a scene and came like a train, whimpering and crying into the soaked sheets.

In the end, it was Sherlock himself, tightly bound and hooded, dripping in sweat and striped with weals, empty and spent, who called time on the scene, dropping the sugared almonds clenched in his right hand to signal that he was tapping out.

This was the first time, ever, that John had permitted Sherlock to reach orgasm from the attentions of another man. It was a damning indictment of the situation they were in, that John had felt it necessary to go this far. But he couldn't do it himself right now. Not with the bodies they'd left behind and the baby they had plucked from the jaws of death.

John immediately signalled to Farouk to leave them, handing him an envelope with his very high fee, the young man was much in demand. He bowed and left. John made quick work of the knots binding Sherlock and pulled the blindfold from his face. He treated the cuts and the gathered the detective up into his arms, naked and slumping and they sat there, rocking gently, for over half an hour before John thought Sherlock was a little chilled and should bathe and eat something before bed. He didn't insist on more than some pastries for their stomachs, but he did run a deep bath and they lay together, refilling it, until their toes wrinkled and John's bad arm started to cramp up.

They moved to the bedroom and John got Sherlock to sit on the end of the bed, swaddled in deep-piled towels, to allow John to comb the dark curls, tighter in their damp state and to gently dry him.

Sherlock peeked out over the thick fluffy towel as John combed. He looked a little owl-like.

'You called in a third party. You never do that, not for years. Why now, why didn't you administer the beating?'

John's hand stilled for a moment, and then he continued to comb.

'Couldn't face it. Don't enjoy it too much at the best of times, yeah, it's OK but it's hurting you and although I understand why you need it, what it does for you... Hmm... Look, after the bodies and everything... I just couldn't face hurting someone, anyone, at the moment, even this kind of thing. I'll be fine, but - just not that - not at the moment. I only want to do positive things at the moment, there's too much violence in this region.'

................

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin. He was still floating and his voice was much softer than normal.

'Thankyou, then, John. For accepting that I needed it, despite your reservations and for facilitating it, even though you strongly dislike any third parties being involved in our private lives.'

Then he sighed a few times and started to look sleepy.

John tucked him up in bed, nude and sparkling clean and fluffy wild-haired and within minutes Sherlock was asleep, face smashed into the pillow and limbs flung wildly across the bed, like a horizontal action figure. He'd thrown the heavy covers aside, uncomfortable on his marked backside and John got to take in a leisurely panorama of pale back and buttocks.

John smiled at the sight, which frankly he could stare at all night if it wasn't for the need for him also to rest and the slight discomfort at the marks striped across the beautiful flesh and so at last, he turned away and poured himself a large glass of scotch from the mini bar. A perk of a major hotel, alcohol being available. He went out onto the balcony, gazing at the lights of Amman and the palm trees waving in the soft but welcome night breeze.

.............

If he was honest, John Watson was a little bit scared of what was coming.

It was one thing to dash across the border and do a quick recce as they had. But to deliberately head towards the hornets nest? Mycroft had to be crazy. And if by chance Mycroft made it out alive, how much trouble would he be in when he got back? They'd make him resign, surely? Or worse than that. It wasn't like a normal criminal process. This was MI6 and technically what Mycroft was doing was treason.

John worried too about them, him and Sherlock. He worried that he would lose Sherlock, or that he would be lost and Sherlock not be able to bear his loss. And he worried most of all that both of them would be killed. While Ishbel was a steady and happy soul for whom Greg and Molly were appointed as guardians in the event of disaster, Parthalan, though welcome to the same arrangement, was not so easy to see coping as well.

John had drained his glass. He'd sworn off alcohol since the shame of a night in Temple Gardens, but tonight was an exception. He still wouldn't go inside for a refill, one was quite enough now he didn't generally drink and it was more to help him sleep than anything. Being trussed up and beaten didn't do it for him, so Laphroig had to suffice. He stayed for a few minutes longer, staring out into the night and then rose, returning to the room, quiet once he'd shut the balcony doors.

Sherlock was curled up now, tightly. Small polite snores, more like hiccups, emanated from the bedclothes. John undressed until he, too, was naked and slipped under the heavy covers. Sherlock didn't fully wake, but gave a happy sigh as John's arms encircled his waist and before long, the two men were sleeping soundly, dreamlessly, free of nightmares.

...............

They awoke with the alarm at six. A quiet knock at the door told them breakfast was outside and John groaned and threw on a robe, disappearing into the bathroom, to allow Sherlock to answer the door in his robe without the obvious presence of a second man in the room. The waiter must have thought Sherlock jolly hungry, but then perhaps he might have a breakfast meeting planned. Either way, the waiter was soon on his way with polite chat and a large tip in his waistcoat pocket and Sherlock and John were making short work of their meal.

They were meeting Anthea at seven and at the appointed hour, they were downstairs in the bar. When Anthea and Tamara turned up, they both looked tired and worried. Sherlock and John exchanged minutely raised eyebrows, their shorthand for "Yeah, I noticed that as well."

Anthea ruled out the hotel for the briefing, so they drove out in her car some way from the main city centre until they stopped at a disused car park just where the city gloss and glamour started to edge into the dusty, uneven edges of town. The large car had seats that could be swivelled and a small table unfolded to allow them to look at documents and maps. Anthea started to talk. Every word was precise, calm, measured. No salient fact was omitted; no extraneous material was included.

.....................

It took some time. By the end of it, Sherlock looked rather as he had on the small plane that took off with him for his abortive Eastern European exile. John hoped the aftermath of looking like that again would not resemble the aftermath of that occasion. Complete breakdown would have described it, drugs, sex, suicide attempt. The works. Sherlock's fist was supporting his chin and he seemed not to be seeing the documents in front of him, but John could tell that he was taking everything in and that his mental cogs were just whirring too quickly for him to be able to communicate anything.

John cleared his throat.

'So. In summary, we have an area of approximately a mile around the Palace, which is determined solely by triangulation of mobile phone signals that indicate that Mycroft, or possibly just his phone, is somewhere in that area. We have had no direct communication from him since he left here, no indirect communication via the ever shrinking network of contacts inside the insurgent-controlled zone.

'In short, the only positive point is that he has not, to date, been paraded on a video as a hostage or shown being murdered.

'Have I summarised correctly? I am sorry, Tamara, to be so blunt.'

Tamara smiled a faint smile.

'That's OK, John. It's not your fault. And it's the situation that I expected as soon as I knew what he had done,'

She looked brittle and fragile, though, not at all like her usual strong self. It was different, this. Different from caring for strangers, or worrying about your own safety. Now there was someone she loved more than anything else in the world and she knew the chances of him returning safely and unharmed were not high.

Anthea nodded.

'That's a good summary. Just about covers it. Only to add the UK Government have deferred air strikes for 48 hours to allow for any rescue bid, but that following that concession, no further deferral will be made. At 7am local time two days from now, the air bombardment will begin. Anyone not out of the capital by then will be considered a hostile party or unfortunate collateral damage.'

John looked grim. Sherlock still looked deep in thought. Both wanted the other to remain behind. Both wanted the other to go home, go back to London, take Wasim's son and protect him in his journey to hospital in the UK. And both knew that the other would not give way.

Surprisingly, Tamara was the one who raised it.

'You guys want to get in and out quickly. I can't sit here and wait, it's killing me sitting here drinking fruit juice and not able to help.

'So. I am taking the baby back to London, assuming Anthea here can organise some official, or less than official, paperwork for the poor scrap. I will stay with him at the hospital while he's treated.

'And in two days' time, if my husband is still alive and still permitted to return to the UK after defying the Queen, I will be taking him home and Anthea here will be in charge while he takes a long overdue holiday.

..............

It took most of the rest of the day to plan how they were going to get into the capital. Like most good plans, it wasn't a complicated plan. They hoped that simplicity would reduce the chances of unexpected hitches.

The hotel shed them out into the heat later that day. Tamara, furnished with impeccably forged documents for the baby, off to Amman airport for her flight to the UK. She declined to say goodbye to John and Sherlock, unable to face a further reminder of the gravity of their position and the worse one of her husband. However she did ring them from the taxi. She had only six words for them.

'Bring him home to me? Please.'


	8. Mycroft's Tale - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft travels to within striking distance of the Palace, in search of Prince Wasim and his family. Islamic militants are in control of the capital. Mycroft's contact is dead. He needs to find another way into the walled city. For the first time, his leg becomes a real handicap.

When he had quietly left the hotel in the small hours of the morning, a few hours before Sherlock found him missing from his suite, Mycroft Holmes was aware of feeling both uncharacteristically alive and strangely, at the same time, partly utterly dead inside.

Only this peculiar combination of moods would lead to an outburst of this kind; of spontaneity, of impulsiveness, of... legwork, God forbid. And only the most extreme kind of need could allow it.

He had lain awake the previous night, tossing and turning, trying to resolve his twin motivators; Wasim - and a woman and child in danger. At first, he had risen to take a short walk, but that turned into a long one and eventually he gave up on sleep altogether and sat and smoked a slim cigar, leaning on a railing in the hotel gardens and contemplating the options open to him.

Mycroft was perfectly and utterly consciously aware that the change of direction he was now contemplating would leave no way back for him to return to London; no chance to slip back into his current position in the UK Government, the position that had been his life for the past decade or more. The Sovereign very rarely issued formal edicts, given her constitutional position, but once she had gone for that "nuclear option", it was every bit as powerful as it looked and sounded and you simply. Did. Not. Disobey. He would be Persona Non Grata, however successful his mission.

Of course, the most likely outcome wasn't success, it was that he would not come back alive at all. The chances of getting in, securing the objects of his search and getting out without being killed, were pretty much zero, after all.

Except... except... there was something that Mycroft knew and Wasim knew and his father and uncle knew, but vanishingly few others in the world. Just a couple of trusted and loyal archaeologists....

There was another way into the Palace.

............

The pattern of rock-hewn tunnels that ran from the old quarries some two miles from the Palace (crucially routing under the old city walls) was for the most part, long forgotten. These were ancient constructions, built to enable construction materials to be transported during times of war and siege, or sandstorms. Afterwards, they had been used as catacombs for funerary purposes and for storage of anything that needed to be in the dry, the cool, or simply away from the sand. 

It was an odd combination; skeletons and flour, gunpowder and paint pigments and when the old city fell to invaders one too many times, the cellars of the Palace were sealed up. Unknowingly, that sealed up the passages beyond the cellars too: when Wasim's great uncle started to reuse the cellars, the hidden passages were not rediscovered. It was only Wasim, playing with his cousins as a child, who had found that behind the filthy charcoal piles in the deepest of the cellars, there was a small crumbling wooden door. It was Wasim, too, who told no one about it, but later invited a respected archaeologist of Middle Eastern pre Islamic architecture and history to examine the structures and tell him their history. 

And it was Wasim and Mycroft who were the only living beings to have been down in those tunnels for decades.

..................

Mycroft knew that these represented his best, his only, chance of getting into the city undetected, now that he had received word that his intended cover accomplice - and long-standing friend of the UK's interests - had been picked up in a ruthless sweep of his neighbourhood the night before.

It was still desperately risky. Mycroft had never been through the whole length of the passages, though he knew where they emerged in the Palace. That was the whole beauty. The area of the Palace being used as cells was previously part of the kitchens and the tunnels converged into a single hidden exit, at the back of a dusty and little-used store room just off the guards' room.

What he didn't know was where in the quarry the entrance was and what condition the tunnels were in, whether there had been rock falls, whether they'd been discovered, whether the air was good, or foul and choking. Wasim had showed him the Palace end on the one visit he'd made to the Kingdom with his friend, to attend a summit meeting, ironically on addressing the threat of Islamist extremism and terrorism and ensuring peaceful Islamic principles prevailed in the wider region.

.............

Remembering this, remembering their dusty hair after they'd climbed down just a few metres into the passage and kissed passionately in the cool dark space, made Mycroft almost stagger to his knees. He had yet to articulate to himself the nagging dread which he simply could not allow to rise to the surface. Yet it was there, guiding his actions.

That thought was, that Wasim had now been missing for too long for a happy outcome to be likely.

He allowed this clutching, nausea-inducing fear to govern his actions, to turn him towards more realistic targets, while all the time it whispered into his ear the terrible idea that he might not see his Prince again. Each time the voice rose in his mind, he clutched at his chest, at the rough raised letter "W" carved into his flesh. He was carrying that proof of their bodies cleaved together, of their love, a lifetime of care, on him. He would not give up hope. Could not.

.............

By nightfall Mycroft's car was close to the quarry and he left it, walking in the starlight from rock to rock and melting into the shadows every time a vehicle passed along the distant highway, its bright headlights flashing.

He rested for an hour or two and ate dates. He didn't like dates, but when in Rome... He longed for Eaton Square, for Mrs G's cooking and Tamara's perfume and Rachel's growing rebellions and charming attempts at parental manipulation.

God, he wanted to go home, more than anything else. Before Tamara, before Rachel, he'd never seen home as somewhere of importance. It was somewhere to get back to at two or three in the morning, somewhere quiet and ordered to deal with even more paperwork and somewhere he could feel relatively secure. More money had been spent on security measures than the whole blessed house had cost their parents in the 1970s and Belgravia had been fashionable even then; it certainly wasn't a rags to riches neighbourhood, quite the opposite.

Now, all he could focus on was the desire to survive long enough to see their faces again. Although it wasn't the family at Eaton Square he was craving, just them, the people not the place. If anything, in his vision when he closed his eyes, it was Holmes Manor he saw in a few years' time, with Tamara and himself settled, a future, older, Rachel bursting in at the start of each school holiday like a whirlwind and then off again, leaving a trail of teenage mess and arguments in her wake. Rachel was so, so dear to him now. She possessed so much confidence and bravery and was a child he knew he could never have produced himself, fussy and driven as he was, but she was a child that he knew he could raise with Tamara's good sense and support. He saw a future for her, if she wanted it, in the Service, but not in his mould. She would be out in the field, an active agent and he had no doubt she could be a brilliant one. She had genetics on her side, after all... If she was like anyone, she was like Sherlock, despite being no genetic relation. That same fire and flash. Like Jim Moriarty had been, but the goodness in her seemed to be winning out. In Jim, goodness was eaten away like a malignant cancer devouring its host, and never stood a chance. Rachel was good. He believed in her.

..............

Once he had finished his meagre rations, Mycroft waited until it was quite dark before making his move to the quarry. There were still minor workings of the sandstone, but these were sporadic, only when a specific order came in, and now was a quiet time. Hostilities meant that the rich and powerful had more pressing matters on their mind than home improvements. No one stood guard: there was nothing to steal that didn't require massive horsepower to move.

The dark and moonless night was a blessing for clandestine scrambling down the steep scree-strewn side of a quarry, but it didn't half make it dangerous, especially for someone with only one complete leg. The drop was over a hundred feet, top to bottom and several times Mycroft thought he'd had it when the loose footing gave beneath him and he could only pray that his descent would be halted by a firm ledge of rock further down. He made it, eventually, to the bottom, but only at the cost of a bleeding elbow and scrapes pretty much everywhere.

More of a hazard however, was the fact that the scramble had done something to his artificial half-limb. It was intact but somehow didn't feel quite "right"; it was out of alignment somehow. At first, as he took tentative steps, he didn't think it was too bad, but as he continued his torch-lit progress around the quarry, searching for the entrance to the Palace tunnels, it became only too apparent that where prosthesis are concerned, a "little bit out" was a nightmare. It was twisting his leg slightly each step he took. Before long, it was painful and his leg began to drag slightly. He found an iron stave to use as a support and hobbled on. And for the second time in the tales of Sherlock Holmes, one of his close companions uttered the immortal phrase "Damn my leg!"

He searched until he could walk no further, which only took an hour, and then he had to rest. He lay down behind a rock and winced as he removed his leg. Then he slept for an hour. The routine was repeated throughout the night.

By the time the rosy fingers of Homer's dawn inched across the sky, Mycroft was seriously concerned. He hadn't found the passage entrance. His leg was showing the harm the damaged artificial limb was causing, blisters the size of his nose and bruising. Most seriously, he was trapped like a rat in a drainpipe. He couldn't find the tunnel. He couldn't climb back out of the quarry with his leg like this. It was a dead end, even with his prize almost within reach.

For the first time, he wondered if he should have split up John and Sherlock and sent each of them out to find Wasim and his wife respectively. He hadn't done it, because he had known what one of them dying alone would do to the other. Added to which, he couldn't ask someone else to commit treason on his behalf. Wasim was his lover and he had to take the most dangerous mission. So he'd kept them together, Sherlock and John. It was looking like a foolish sentiment now.

He looked round. This wasn't the kind of place he'd imagined dying. It wasn't the sort of place he wanted to die, damn it. He leaned his sweat-soaked head back onto the rock, and stared, exhausted, at the quarry wall.

.............

When Rachel had first arrived at Eaton Square, she'd only had with her a few possessions, including Mary's small statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary and various bits and pieces of clothes, most of them unsuitable for the British climate, fit only for her former Spanish home. One of the miscellaneous things she had brought home, however, was one of those puzzle books, pictures where the painting appeared to be of one thing, but when looked at with a different filter, or upside down, or whatever, a new, completely new, image appeared from within the colours.

So it was with the quarry. As Mycroft sank towards sleep, his eyes blurred. And as they blurred and became watery, he saw a faint shadow on the rock. He shook his head vigorously, convinced it was an optical illusion. But when he blinked and looked again, there it was.

He'd been looking in the wrong place. The entrance was there, all right. But it was halfway up the steep, almost cliff-like side of the quarry. Of course it was, these were ancient tunnels, hollowed out when the quarry was a lot less deep. Decades and centuries of men's toil, slaves toil really, had lowered the floor level by almost fifty feet. He'd missed the obvious. Was he losing his touch? Maybe he'd just been out of active service too long.

He tried to work out how far up the entrance was. Maybe forty-five feet?

It might as well be a hundred. With the leg.

He lay back, and wondered how long it would be until the insurgents stumbled across him, and how long after that, that he would be dead.

It wasn't supposed to end like this. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny flip up photo stand. Three photos, making a triangle that you could stand on a hotel bedside table when travelling. Tamara. Rachel. Wasim. A fourth photo was inside his signet ring, which concealed its prize completely. A tiny portrait miniature painting, painted under a magnifier by the artist, the best miniature painter in the world. Its subject: his brother.

He clutched the photo stand to his chest, and placed his hand on top of it, the signet ring glinting in the bright morning light.

Then he waited for his fate.


	9. Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft sees some things that no one should have to see. 
> 
> Sherlock and John journey to try to rescue him. On the way, they realise they may not be together again if this goes badly, and well... Say goodbye rather physically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for descriptions of murder (not of any of our boys but upsetting nonetheless) and for explicit sex.

Mycroft didn't know how long he'd slept, but it must have been many hours, as the sun was setting when he next opened his eyes. Thankfully he was in shade most of the time from the scattered boulders, which also gave him some cover.

He assessed his situation. Rations: four bars of chocolate, three cereal bars, half a dozen dates. Drinks: three litres of water. It was the water situation which was the most crucial. He was going to have to ration it, though he wasn't sure what he was prolonging this for. Delirium seemed infinitely preferable to decapitation, on the whole.

He'd had a signal on his phone, presumably courtesy of the Palace, but his battery was dying now and although he had a solar charger, that seemed to have been rather bashed around during his night descent into his current predicament. It gave enough charge boost to operate the phone, to keep it alive, but not to actually do anything with it, call, text, nothing. So he was going to have to hope that they could track him down just from the phone signal.

His frustration was less for his current predicament, which was after all a result of his own weakness and over-estimation of his residual physical abilities. It was more that he didn't see how he was going to even make an attempt now, at reaching the Palace and rescuing Wasim's wife and son. That thought brought him anguish, though he maintained the mask of impassiveness.

..........

He decided that night that he needed to move, to be better hidden. He found that he could still walk (after a fashion and with the use of the iron stave as support), but his stump was ballooning rapidly and each step was more agonising than the last. Slower, too. He wouldn't be able to do this again, he realised, so he tried to choose the best place to slump down, shaded, hidden, but with a good view of the quarry floor.

Then, he slept. But his sleep was to be disturbed. Not by Sherlock and John and a rescue party shouting 'Tally Ho, back to Blighty', either... That would have been preferable to what happened next.

............

Mycroft was awoken in the early hours of the morning, when the night was still a cold black blanket, by the approaching, echoing sound of voices. The voices were speaking Arabic. He didn't much like the tone of the cold-barked orders being given from some of the men to others. He thought there might be six of them, maybe seven, these men in charge, judging by the varying accents and pitches. But he could hear more footsteps than that? Some footsteps were clear and striding, but these others were hesitant, more shuffling and tripping. And he heard the sound of someone crying wretchedly.

Slowly, so slowly, he put his eye to the sliver of a gap between two large rocks to try to see what was happening.

There was a sizeable group of men in the quarry now, and they hadn't come down the quarry sides. That only left one option, and it wasn't good news for Mycroft. They'd come through the passageways. Not so secret after all, then, thought Mycroft grimly. He realised if he had tried to use the tunnels to reach the prisoners cells he'd certainly have ended up thrown into one of them, or worse, been amongst this band of prisoners.

Worse, much worse, to have been in the latter category, because he guessed what was coming next and his heart sank utterly with the knowledge.

His attention turned to the individuals now and he tried to focus. Two groups, then. One, a band of Islamist fighters, that was clear by their words and their attitude. The other, a terrified group of ten mostly young or middle-aged men, though a couple were much older. They were clothed in traditional dress too but with a slightly less austere note to their clothing. Each was handcuffed behind his back and then the group were chained together by their bare feet. 

Mycroft didn't need to look at the Islamists' fearsome weapons to know what was coming next. He swallowed hard and focused his sight and all his concentration on the faces and characteristics of these men that he knew were about to commit murder. Having memorised all he could, he muttered a short, silent prayer and then stared at the ground. 

The prisoners were forced to kneel while their killers read a statement out, a diatribe against the ungodly (defined as anyone who did not comply totally and permanently with the aims of this group, it seemed). One captive, a young man, was sick on the ground. But no one cried now. No one begged for their life. 

Mycroft flinching ten times as swords were raised and brought down and down again... and yet again. 

And all the time, that modern witness without principle, the video recorder, rolled. A crime of mass murder, without shame, or remorse but instead pride. By nightfall the footage would be played out in airport lounges on rolling 24-hour news channels and into peoples' homes all over the world. Terrorism before this had been cat and mouse. The terrorists tried to cause fear and mayhem, but they also wanted to survive the attacks and their aims were definable, comprehensible, occasionally even understandable. They were easier to catch. They were intellectually comprehensible, at least in theory. 

Not now. These were terrorists for whom no crime was too heinous to be hidden; in fact, the more terrifying in its cruelty, the more it served the purposes of their clear message, that if entire populations did not acquiesce to their extreme demands, they too would face the same fate.

The only mercy granted to these men, he supposed, was that they did not have the dubious luxury like the Western hostages of a long confinement and periodic parading in front of the cameras, only to be killed all the same in the end. And that they were spared the humiliation of those orange jumpsuits.

 

...............

The quarry floor ran with blood. Not a metaphor. It was flowing.

It was thick at first, but soon coagulated and settled into pools, darkening within minutes. Flies came to feast on the unexpected bonanza. The men who had killed their captives worked just as expressionlessly now they were dead, dragging them away into rock crevices and then using one of the big dumper trucks to cover their victims in sand and rocks.

There was no emotion and no respect.

Mycroft took his last chance to once again commit their faces to memory and their distinguishing characteristics, these men of blood. It was difficult, with their similar clothing and long beards, but there were some he thought he could do some work on identifying. He wished Sherlock was here. He was as good as his little brother at the observation game, but he would have valued a second pair of eyes. And the company. And the comfort of seeing him again. He cursed his phone's lack of power, meaning he could not photograph this evidence when fresh. A separate camera had been one too many gadgets to carry.

............

The men left, at last and once they had gone, Mycroft was left alone once more, in this silent, eerie killing place.

After half an hour, he deemed it safe enough to risk emerging from his hiding place. He couldn't have stayed there much longer anyway, his leg was cramping badly.

He limped slowly around the bottom of the quarry walls, every so often stopping at a fresh sad pile of earth. He suspected that more bodies would be added and the quarry perhaps then dynamited to obliterate the evidence, just as the evidence of past civilisations and other religions and sects was being systematically blown up across the region to erase all traces of them in this land. He wondered why they were bothering with the dynamiting here, if his suspicions about the reasons for choosing this location were accurate. And he wondered if he would still be here when it happened, or if he would already have been found and dealt with? Neither option was attractive.

.....................

One of the bodies was less well-covered than most of the rest. It was the one Mycroft had spent the most time looking at, as this man had been the nearest of the captives to have his face properly visible. He'd been more covered than the rest, a scarf across his face and a steely gaze not present in most of the other captives. Eyes, the only part of his face visible, that looked somehow... Familiar?

Mycroft used his hands until he found a shovel nearby. Then he worked faster and after about fifteen minutes of painful, hard toil, he'd uncovered the top half of the corpse. His shovel stilled, he stood staring down at a face whose features he somehow knew.

It was the King, Wasim's uncle. Hardly recognisable in death, of course, stripped of all his finery, wealth and power, but Mycroft would have known the faces of Wasim's family anywhere. Fine features, delicately drawn, those once-bright dark eyes, slim graceful physique and perfect teeth.

So if Wasim was not here, alongside his uncle, it would strongly suggest that he was, indeed in the desert...he needed to search on, though he was sure he would have spotted Wasim instantly had he been among the group of victims.

Mycroft did not find Wasim, though he found three other relatives amongst the dead, the rest aside from these four, possibly senior officials at the Palace. He didn't know whether to be happy or sad that Wasim was not amongst the bodies. He wanted him alive, of course, but most of all he needed to know. Know what had become of him.

He turned away from the bodies when he ate what little food he could stomach. He did not like to turn his back, but he did because he felt deeply guilty for being alive and guilty too for eating food in this cursed place of suffering.

..........

Back at the hotel in Amman, Sherlock and John were ready to embark on their mission to try to extract Mycroft.

Anthea had called them back as they walked towards the sand coloured Land Rover they were taking.

'You know, Britain, the Government, it's... Well, we're not asking you to do this. Mycroft has been suspended. That's a formality of course; he's likely to be asked to resign. If you go, any help I can give you will be unofficial and there's now only 36 hours until the bombing raids start, which realistically means I will be flying out in about 32 hours time. That's barely enough time for you to do the round trip with a few hours there.

'Anyway, it's up to you, of course, but Sherlock, you know how much I respect and rate Mycroft, so don't take this the wrong way, but I have to say it, and I'm sorry to bring personal matters into that.

She took a deep breath.

'Sherlock, your son Bee is my son too and I do not want you to be sent back in a body bag, because I know, I'm told by Mycroft, I hear, I see on surveillance, all of it. I know how Bee finds life tough. How he struggles, without you there by his side.

'He's six years old, Sherlock. Six. Please, consider not going. And if you do go, please make sure you come back to him?'

Sherlock stood still for a moment, placing a hand on John's shoulder, not wanting him to feel excluded as Bee's parent. Anthea had never staked any claim on Bee, and he didn't think she was actually doing that now, but it was the closest she'd come to intervening in their lives.

It made no difference. His life was always at risk, in London or here. The likelihood of him dying peacefully in his bed had never been high. He couldn't live half a life for the sake of his son. And besides, Mycroft had already paid a very high price to protect Bee, and to try to protect Sherlock. It was time for payback.

He made no reply to her, therefore. Simply nodded, and leaned in and kissed John on the lips.

'That stuff all packed, John? And the spare fuel? Water? Good. We're moving out. Anthea, try not to worry. We'll be back for crumpets and Darjeeling before you know it. Tamara will look after Bee, you can depend on it. Send them our love.'

She bit her lip hard as the Landrover skidded out of the hotel compound and away down the road.

...................

In the quarry, Mycroft was hidden once more. He dozed, swatting away flies in his half sleep, half waking and watched, when he woke properly, a small lizard basking on the rocks, these rocks that were all the protection that stood between him and his death.

As he feared, men returned, with more captives, later that day. Eight this time. What had been unimaginably cruel the first time was if anything worse now, because the captives could see it, see the drying blood on the ground in the quarry. They knew what awaited them anyway, of course, but to be forced to see that confirmation beforehand... Mycroft shivered. He'd killed many times, more than many, almost countless times. Some of those killings had not troubled him at all. Some had a little more, some a lot more. But he knew that there was a line. These men shoving their fellow men along, trailing their robes through the blood of previous victims, had forgotten that, and the line was disappearing altogether in this country along with their humanity.

There was a paper tissue in his pocket, a bit sticky as it had wrapped some of the dates he'd eaten earlier. He spat on it and screwed up pieces of it to make a form of ear plug. He stuffed the balls of damp paper into his ears. It muffled the cries and that sound of sword through air and on through flesh and bone. The younger Mycroft wouldn't have done that. He would have wanted all his senses alert, taking in everything. But Mycroft was growing older now and death seemed too real an idea to be contemplated without emotion. "Sentiment, the refuge of the foolish and the aged", he thought to himself, but no longer minded that this category might include him. 

When they were gone, when it was all over, he hobbled out into the light once more. He looked down sadly at the corpses. Less effort at hiding these. These were ordinary people, he deduced from their clothing, their hands and faces. A farmer, a tanner of leather, a coffee-shop owner. A teacher and a man who sold bread. A youth who cleaned the mosque. A lad who looked after the Arab horses at the castle. A boy, just a bloody boy, who shone shoes in the street. The boy's own shoes were pathetic and tattered, and now they were also soaked in blood. He was thin, with poor teeth and poorer clothes.

"He never had much of a life", thought Mycroft, "and they've taken away what little he had. He never had shiny shoes of his own".

He returned to the rock and found his eyes strangely stinging. It was probably the sun after being in the shade all that time. Must be. He used the rest of the sticky paper hanky to wipe his "sun-stung" eyes. Then, tired once more, he rested.

..........

The Land Rover wasn't on the road from the hotel for long. After a few miles, it swung off. Not onto a camel trail this time, but into the desert itself. Hence the choice of transport being the Land Rover. It was noisy and slow, but it was fitted with specialist desert kit, notably large bespoke sand tyres, an air intake with special sand filters and a triple-strength cooling system for the engine that used liquid nitrogen vapour to keep everything at a constant working temperature. Only in this way could Sherlock and John avoid the border crossing and get across the desert towards the capital with any hope of being undetected. Most of the rest of the load space was taken up by medical kit.

Hours later, in the dip of a dune, they stopped in its slight shade and the two men ate from the picnic the hotel had made up. There were delicious dishes: tagine, some sort of chicken dish; a compote of stewed fruits in a sweet liquor that tasted of honey and rose water.

They hadn't agreed on who was going to tell Mycroft about Wasim and Zahia. John suspected it would need to be Sherlock and resolved to give them some privacy when the time came. Most of their conversation as they drove, infrequent as it was with the struggle to be heard above the growling engine and the hiss of the shifting sands under their wheels, was about tactics of overcoming trouble, when met. They didn't expect to be able to find Mycroft without encountering serious resistance.

Realistically, both of them understood that the chances of their tactics working and their surviving long enough even to see Mycroft, were little more than minimal.

"Maybe this is it, then?" thought John. "Our last bow, out here far from home, far from our children. I spent my Army days trying to avoid my soldiers becoming a corner of a foreign field, and now I look like ending up as one myself. Oh, the fucking brilliant irony of it."

.........

Three miles from the edge of the walled city, they stopped the engine and set up camp for the night. The Land Rover had a tent arrangement that used the roof of the vehicle and they climbed up the ladder rack on the back of the vehicle, strapping themselves in so they didn't roll off during the night. It wasn't a place for intimacy, so John settled for Sherlock's face close against his back, breathing small huffing breaths into his spine that made it tingle. It was worth the sacrifice though, as they were untroubled by snakes, scorpions and all manner of alarming insects that trundled through their camp during the dark, dark night.

When Sherlock woke the next morning, John was already up and dressed, sat cleaning their weapons by the camp stove as a pot of water came to a bubbling simmer. It was cold, the sun not yet scorching its path through the residual night chill, so Sherlock was glad of the mug of hot chocolate John handed to him.

They knew they couldn't stay here for long, but were also painfully aware that one or both of them might not return from this. They exchanged looks heavy with meaning and John nodded. A moment later, the remaining hot chocolate was heedlessly spilt, as John dived at Sherlock and crashed his lips against Sherlock's own, not waiting for a response to lick and worry his lips, nor to ask for entry but instead thrusting his tongue in hungrily, exploring all, demanding all. Sherlock responded with equal desperation, his large hands sliding down to cup John's arse and pulling John to him, flush against his body, breaking the mouth contact momentarily.

John was panting already, reaching up now to grab Sherlock's hair and pull his face back down. Then he made a noise of disapproval.

'Your fucking hair. It's too short, it's...no bloody use!'

Sherlock chuckled and kissed John's head of equally short hair and blew a raspberry in it.

'Oh John. My irresistible angry man. My hair will grow, give it time, but for the moment, can you just put your complaint aside until the Court of Human rights is free to hear it and concentrate on this?'

He pulled John's hand down his chest and belly, sliding through the sparse trail of blackish reddish hair that descended from Sherlock's navel and down into his jeans. John could feel the core heat and the insistent throb that sent a punch of desire straight into John's gut and made his own prick jump and twitch.

'Is that right? Demanding, aren't you? You'd better button the lip, or I'll fuck you hard against the Land Rover instead of in the soft sand.'

John went in for another kiss, but then hesitated as he saw the flickering in Sherlock's eyes.

He swore.

'Oh fuck, I should have known it. I can never bloody punish you, can I? This is turning you on, isn't it? You enjoy the punishment too much. OK, well. Don't say you didn't ask for it, you monster.'

John gave no more warning but simply twisted Sherlock's arm behind his back and simultaneously kicked both legs out from underneath him. John smirked at the sight of the detective flailing around on the ground, winded. He might have a crappy arm and be too old and too lame for the army or surgery, but he could still take on pretty much all comers, given a following wind. A consulting detective was short work.

As Sherlock smirked and slowly got up, he was seized once more and thrown against the bonnet of the Land Rover. Sherlock was breathing heavily from his nostrils and his cock was already painfully hard. It didn't go unnoticed. John, crowding him from behind, reached around and unzipped Sherlock's jeans and pants, pulling them down hard with less than careful attention to the poor penis. Sherlock yelled as it was caught and dragged for some moments, but John's only response was to administer a hard slap just below the buttocks. 

'Cut it out, Holmes. Another squeak out of you and you'll get twenty of the best from that oil level dipstick. It's sharp and metal and it flexes and I reckon it will fucking hurt as well as being dirty as fuck. Zip it.'

Sherlock nodded frantically and tried to stop himself writhing too obviously, for fear of that punishment. He didn't mind the cuts or the beating, quite the opposite, that was no secret. but he wasn't too sure about the choice of weapon, a bit unhygienic. He knew, though, that John had chosen it to make him respect the threat, instead of looking gleeful about it.

John didn't waste any more time. He grabbed a small tube from his pocket, freed himself from his chinos and slicked both himself and Sherlock's arse. He set his stopwatch, Sherlock could hear the distinctive quiet clicking and then he muttered into Sherlock's ear.

'Sixty seconds of prep. That's all you're getting. So you need to be still and quiet and relax, because otherwise it's going to hurt like hell.'

With that warning, he moved one finger inside Sherlock and began to open him. Sherlock dropped his head against the smooth, hard metal bonnet of the Land Rover. This was his John. Sherlock loved the kind John, the doctor, of course, but if he had to choose, he would take this John every time, the John of controlled violence and quiet domination of his whole world, including Sherlock.

He jerked as John added a second finger and quickly found Sherlock's prostate. John knew his body like a map now. He began working Sherlock in earnest, adding a third finger when fifty seconds had passed. There wasn't time to do much with the three fingers, but no sooner had the stopwatch pinged, than the fingers were suddenly gone and John was lining himself up. He used his hands to spread Sherlock's buttocks and licked long and low between arse cheeks. Then he pushed in, but not a little. A whole lot. He pressed his thickness relentlessly forward, ignoring the bodily resistance and the guttural groan that came from Sherlock. Only when he was completely seated did John hesitate for a moment. Sherlock relaxed slightly, breathing slowly to adjust to the feeling of fullness, John being broad of girth. However, it was momentary, he was only to yell a moment later as he was forced to grab the raised sides of the bonnet when John withdraw almost completely and then slammed back into him with a force that rammed Sherlock's own genitals against the radiator grille of the vehicle and thumped his knees hard against the unforgiving metal bumper. Bruises. Yes, there were going to be quite a few of those. Sherlock smiled a small private smile.

John was muttering, circling slightly now with his hips, increasing that feeling of burn and almost unbearable fullness. Sherlock's sweat dropped off his forehead, despite the morning chill. He watched as it dripped onto the tan bonnet of the Land Rover. Clutched his hands once more, tightly, as John flexed and pistoned and... took him.

................

It was the taking, the uncompromising demand, that gave Sherlock the greatest sense of security. Back, way back, when puberty was kicking in, just in its very early stages, a grown-up he trusted, who was supposed to teach him facts and information, instead taught him only about pain and lies and how no-one, no-one at all, could really be trusted. That the ground beneath your feet might look like concrete, but it could dissolve with a whisper in your ear and the pressure of a hand on your shoulder. The sound of a condom wrapper being ripped open. The sensation of heavy breathing on the back of your neck. The experience, the abuse, had left him with no firm foundation to navigate his teenage years, nor his twenties. Hence the drugs and the prostitution, or as near as dammit to it, that he descended to.

He had felt as if the rest of the world went about their business, firmly rooted in the ground. Secure. Safe. That he had none of those tethers to the world, that none of them would be available to him.

It was only with John Watson that the combination of discipline to provide security and certainty and sex to provide release and pleasure with the only person he completely trusted, was possible for him. He wasn't a pain whore. He sought out pain, sought out people to inflict it, but the pain was purely a means to an end, that of white cold clear subspace. It might not last long, but it was precious. He was the eye of the storm while it lasted, calm, clear-headed, peaceful and happy.

Sherlock wasn't close to subspace here in the desert, but he did have the anchor of John. Mentally, through his controlled violence and taking command and physically, through the act of taking Sherlock. John was doing what the drug dealers had done and Lang had done to him as a child, but with a key difference. When he was trapped like this, impaled, undone, he knew that difference. Knew that he had only to safeword, or to drop a handful of sugared almonds, or say stop and it would stop and John would not leave him, but care for him and lie with him and love him until he could bear to be in the world again.

............

Orgasm came to them both almost as one. John whispered something too lewd even for this tale into Sherlock's ear and the result was inevitable. The Land Rover acquired a partial new paint job in ropes of semen across the radiator grille and as Sherlock tightened and pulsed, John grabbed that too-short hair and came with a shout that was absorbed by the empty desert sky, a warm precious flood filling Sherlock as he slumped against the truck.

'Fucking hell', said John, carefully and gently removing himself from Sherlock's body as his cock softened and became once again a benign appendage rather than his weapon of domination.

'Fucking hell indeed, John', said Sherlock, wincing as he staggered up from his undignified posture.

..........

They were quiet after that as they cleaned themselves up and made ready to leave. Both men were aware that this, this explosive, rough lovemaking, was their farewell, if things went badly. For John, it was a way of avoiding their last sexual experience being at the hands of a paid Dom in a hotel. For Sherlock, it was simply a momentary release from the knowledge  
that Mycroft might already be dead and even if he wasn't and they managed to find him, he would have to tell him the news of Wasim.

It was a sombre pair, then, that left the scene of the camp that morning and drove off further into the DAK desert, heading for the capital.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anthea reaches the safety of London with Iskandar. Sherlock and John find Mycroft in the quarry, but they are not safe yet

Tamara reached London without incident, the false documents for the baby a credit to the forger. They left Heathrow, picked up by one of the ubiquitous black limousines and were deposited at Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, where one of Mycroft's minions was waiting with a small neat placard with "Tamara Holmes" printed on it. They were swiftly whisked away to see a massively overly qualified doctor, Mr Crispin Somerton and after examining the baby, he placed his large hand gently on her arm.

'This baby will be fine. He's pretty weak from dehydration and malnutrition, but he's basically healthy, once those are dealt with. I have been sent some documents with information about the genetics and health profile of his father, but we have nothing on his mother. Can you provide anything? I understand that you are not the genetic mother.'

Tamara shook her head.

'His mother is dead and her country is currently a war zone. His father - he is... also dead. We have his information because he was a - close friend - of my husband.'

'Is your husband here? He might know more about the mother?'

Tamara blinked at him.

'I - uh. No. He's... um. He's still in the region, in the field, attempting to secure the safe passage of - some people. I can't really say any more. His work is dangerous and not in the public arena, so to speak. All we know about the mother is that they had been married a year and this, the boy, was their first child.'

The doctor looked quizzically at her, then nodded.

'Well. It sounds as if he was spared much danger. I'm sure this little one will be fine, Mrs Holmes. Perhaps more details might be available when the country becomes more peaceful. Especially for - such significant individuals, yes?'

She caught his meaning. He was no fool. He knew measures like this were not for persons of no significance.

'Yes. Yes. The baby - this child - is...important. Not only to the country, but also to my husband personally. Very important.'

She stopped. He looked at her. His gaze was assessing and more than a little concerned.

'Now. How are you? Your husband's work sounds potentially dangerous and you have a sick baby. Have you looked after a child before?'

'No. I have a stepdaughter, but she is older. I have no children of my own.'

The doctor nodded. That explained the look of trepidation on her face when he'd said the baby would recover, she was worried he'd send them home tonight, when she wasn't fully ready and prepared to deal with the baby. Though she'd probably never admit it. This mercy mission must have been a short-notice operation, or else the baby was a surprise find, then. Either they didn't know it existed, or they didn't expect to find it alive.

But he would ask no more probing questions, other than the domestic. He knew little of Mycroft Holmes personally, but he knew of him, anyone in the senior level of the professions in the UK did. He was a constant, shadowy presence in key events. Almost a ghostly figure, murmuring in the ears of Presidents and Prime Ministers. An old fashioned One Nation man, supporting both the natural order of society but with it, a meritocratic structure. Crispin thoroughly approved.

......................

He handed Tamara a cup of really pretty respectable coffee from the small hissing pod machine on his office bureau. She sipped gratefully, feeling a little calmer for his urbane reassurance. Loud tie and braces, granted, but then, if thinking that orange and lime green coordinated was his biggest sin, she thought that would be agreeably mild as far as character flaws went.

'Is there any support at home?' He couldn't imagine there wouldn't be, given time, but wasn't sure if anything was set up right now.

Her face softened.

'Yes, we share a nanny with my brother-in-law: he and his husband have two young children. And we have staff at home, for household tasks and cooking. I'm not alone, very far from it. And there is security. A lot of security. Feels like a very comfortable prison. Sometimes, anyway.' She grimaced. 

Crispin was relieved. He'd been warned that this person was to be looked after impeccably and an existing support structure was more than half the battle.

'Good. That's super news. Now, I propose we keep this little chap in for a few days to get him properly recovered and feeding well; that will also give you a chance to rest and prepare to take him home. But I must ask. Will he be safe here? And, and I must also ask this, will we?'

Tamara nodded.

'No one knows he's alive. He was found under the dead body of his mother. Sorry, I know that's not a pleasant idea, but it's true. She tried to protect him. She did protect him. She knew what was coming, she knew she was about to die and yet her last thought on this earth was to try to save him, her baby. What can you say? I never met her, but, dear God, I wish I had. My work has led me to see many acts of bravery in war zones, some of which resulted in honours and medals, Mr Somerton. But much, much more common were unsung and extraordinary acts of bravery of parents, for their children. Sometimes fathers, but more often, just by circumstance, mothers. Some of those women barely older than children themselves.

......................

There was a soft knock at the door. The doctor went to open it, to tear a strip off whoever was interrupting, only to find several large shiny-suited muscular men at the door. They nodded to the doctor politely and then turned to Tamara and in unison, said "East Coker".

Realisation dawned on her face as she recognised one of the raft of situation specific code words she'd had to memorise when she first came to Eaton Square, and she turned back and faced the doctor.

'These gentlemen are... Well, they are from the Government, let's say that. They have been assigned to the protection of the baby. They will not leave his side during his stay.'

One of the men cleared his throat.

'There are a few more of us, Ma'am. Five in the corridor and one in the Gents. And another buying a Curly-Wurly from the vending machine.'

The doctor frowned.

'No chances being taken, eh? I imagine you are equipped with more than just the Curly Wurlys, yes?'

The men shuffled and one of them opened his too-shiny suit jacket. The soft grey gleam of his handgun looked alien in this medical context. The doctor sighed.

'Mmm, I imagined so. I will need to advise the hospital governors. We are used to having guarded prisoners in NHS hospitals, of course and when the Royals are treated, then too we have armed protection but Great Ormond Street is a bit different, being a children's hospital. I don't foresee any problem, although I suspect it will be requested that all weapons are concealed at all times unless a specific target threat is identified.'

The lead guard nodded. 'That's our preference too, sir.' He led his posse out of the door and took up position, leaving two men remaining in the room itself.

Somerton bid Tamara farewell, and told her to go back to Eaton Square to get some rest. It was only as she walked out of the hospital and climbed into the black limousine, that she realised just how exhausted she was. By the time she got home, she was not far off falling asleep on her feet. She decided that Bee and Ishbel would have to wait until the morning; thankfully Rachel was away doing a Duke of Edinburgh award course and wouldn't be back for a couple more days.

She bathed and then ate some rose veal and roasted vegetables, before falling into bed, and only minutes later, into a deep dreamless sleep.

.....................

In the quarry, Mycroft was thinking of Tamara. He felt like a stag held at bay by the hunt hounds, no way out of the the dead end. He'd thrown away his position and status for this failed search and for nothing. He had neither Zahia, nor Wasim, or their child. For the first time, Mycroft really believed that all three of them were now dead. It made him see Holmes Manor again in his mind, a scene of Tamara sitting at a white-painted wrought iron table under the huge weeping willow, the sunlight dappling through the swaying greenery. She was pouring tea from the heavy silver pot, the one with the French inscription in curling script and the green baize-lined mahogany case. Her hair was tucked behind her ear and she was older, in this dream, in her middle fifties. She was talking to him and smiling and he knew they were happy.

He had to keep that thought hugged close to him. The preview of his own grief over Wasim was threatening to overwhelm him. His image of Tamara was his best defence. It was why he had set Wasim adrift into an uncertain future, a future which ultimately had led to tragedy, in all likelihood.

He still wasn't sure if he could live with the grief, let alone the guilt, if his suspicions were proved correct.

...................

 

Sherlock and John were about a mile short of the city when their data from Anthea started to come through with information gathered from the mobile phone triangulation pings. They realised that the phone at least, was not in the city centre, nor, probably, within the city walls at all. It was somewhere close by, some facility that was there to supply or service the city population.

John was studying one copy of the map, Sherlock an identical copy. They each made a list of potential candidates.

John read their joint list out, once they had completed it.

Desalination plant. Probably slightly too far for this strength of signal. Crossed out.  
Oil plant. Almost certainly too far. Crossed out.  
School. Possible  
Date packing plant. Possible  
Food market. Possible  
Quarry. Possible  
Truck garage. Possible.

Five realistic targets then. Which one first? For this, John deferred to Sherlock, seeing him memorise the list, frown down at the map and then stare off into the difference, seeming to glare at nothing at all. 

Anyone who knew Sherlock, knew better than to interrupt this state of mind. His eyes flicked, blinked and he muttered quietly as he navigated his way through the multitude of rooms, exploring sculleries, drawing rooms and attics. John was also painfully aware however, that whilst they were well camouflaged and in a lucky dip helping to shield them from the jihadists gaze, there were no doubt spotters around, maybe even the camel train they'd seen in the distance by moonlight as they'd slowed down. They couldn't stay here, not any longer, it was too risky, but where did they head for?

John hated this kind of mission, with little planning, no backup and negligible chances of success. It was rubbish. The only thing clear was the objective - to get Mycroft (and themselves) out of this hostile environment.

He occupied himself pouring some tea from a flask. It wasn't hot, but it was warm and wet and he needed something to do. Finally, some minutes later, by which time the tea was off-cold, Sherlock opened his eyes wide.

'It's the quarry. It must be.'

John nodded. 'Okay. I accept that. But explain to me. How do you know?'

'Because it's not where Mycroft wants to be, but it's likely he's there because his phone is, but it's also not where a captive would be held. Too big and too open.'

Confusion spread over John's face. 'Why does it not being Mycroft's target, assuming that's the Palace, make the quarry the likely location?'

Sherlock grabbed his shoulders. 'Because he must have gone somewhere that could get him to that target, the one he really wants, undetected. The date-packing factory and the garage are too far away from the city centre. The food market is too modern to have any old hidden tunnels and the school would be too difficult to get in and out of to use with the level of security they're having to deploy to soft targets like schools and hospitals. 

'So, the quarry.'

John nodded. 'To be honest, at this stage I don't mind which option we go for, 'Lock, I just don't want to stay here, I feel like a sitting duck. Let's roll.'

.......................

 

It didn't take long to get to the quarry. Sherlock cut the engine as they approached and they coasted to a standstill. Leaving the Land Rover as quietly as they could and with weapons loaded and in their hands, they crept towards the top edge of the quarry walls.

They looked at each other and John nodded. They peered over.

The quarry looked deserted. Old bits of machinery were scattered around, and recently moved piles of rocks dotted the perimeter. Sherlock frowned and sniffed the air. As John did the same, his stomach lurched. It was incredibly faint, but that smell was unmistakable to an army doctor. Dead bodies. It was a hot climate and it started fast, decomposition, a major reason for the cultural and religious desire to bury bodies as quickly as possible in this region, in this heat. John felt his sight blurring for a moment. The heat and that sweet smell took him back to Afghanistan in a flash; back to a bombed-out house in an abandoned village. John had been first in and the sight of an entire family of women and children, their bodies spilling open and rotting, with the accompanying smell, had turned his stomach more thoroughly than anything before or since. He clutched his arm, the damaged one. That too, had give him that unique smell, during his captivity after the chopper crash. It was the smell that filled his nostrils, gangrene that time, but still rotting flesh, the last thing he remembered as his senses shut down one by one as the vile, cruel murderer of two of his fellow captive brutally raped him.

John lurched and then staggered forward, down onto his hands and knees. Sherlock grabbed him, clutching his face and searching his expression.

'John. JOHN? I know this is difficult, but you have to get through it. You did the chopper flights and you can do this. John. Stay with me. I need your help. JOHN, please.'

John's eyes tried to focus. He felt as if he was swimming through treacle. He clawed his way upwards, towards the light, and finally Sherlock's face came back into view, blurred at first but then sharper.

'Water', he hissed. 'On my face, chuck it at me.'

Sherlock obliged. The water soaked John but instantly revived him. He groaned.

'Sorry about that.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'It's fine, can you go on?'

'Yeah. Just keep the water handy, yeah? And get me some of those extra-strong mints. A handful.'

They looked for a place to descend and eventually found it. And found something remarkable, too. In the gritty sand at the top of the rock face, there were footprints. More than that, they were strange footprints, one foot a different shape to the other. And the right size for Mycroft...it must be his prosthetic lower left leg.

'I was right', Sherlock whispered triumphantly. We didn't see his jeep, though?'

'Probably further round the quarry', John muttered. 'Do you think you can get from the quarry into the city, then? Is that why he's come here?'

'I think you can get from here all the way to the Palace, if I know Mycroft. Wasim must have showed him a route. As long as he's the only one who knows of it, it would give him a real chance to launch a rescue bid. I just hope he's not the only one - and he discovered that before he tried.'

'Because there's noone there to rescue?'

'Exactly. Trouble is, we don't know if Mycroft's still here. Or if they've discovered him and taken him back to the city. If they have, then we have to try to get him out, and with zero element of surprise. It would be crazy.'

'Crazy, but you would try it anyway?'

'I'd try it anyway. What do I have to lose? We would both probably be executed and so I wouldn't have you. And Mycroft has sacrificed so much for me, for Sherry, for Wasim. I've always been a burden he's shouldered, I know that. And Tamara has been important to me, talking about... the past. I owe her, too.'

Sherlock stopped then and smiled, a small sad smile.

'Come on. Let's get down there.'

...............

Mycroft, his energy sapped, was dozing behind his now-hated rock. The smell was worse down here, of the bodies and though there was little food left, he hadn't felt hungry for hours, just nauseous. But he'd been through worse, in his younger days in Six. Mock execution in Beiruit, fifty lashes in Saudi. And those weeks and weeks spent stumbling through dense rainforest in Colombia, after his deep cover in Medellin was blown. He'd been just once to a zoo since he'd been found by a tribe of locals, but only in the last year and he always stayed firmly outside the reptile house.

Here, his biggest fears were beheading and scorpions and not necessarily in that order.

He heard a small rock falling down the side of the steep quarry sides and looked towards where the sound had seemed to come from. He could barely make it out, but there they were. Two figures climbing down, one mainly using his left arm and shorter than the other. John. The other, lithe like a cat, climbing faster. Sherlock. Mycroft could have wept with relief and joy.

Sherlock and John reached the bottom of the cliff without incident. They started to search the perimeter. When they were within earshot, Mycroft called to them. He was surprised how hoarse his voice had become, thin, dry and scratchy. He did not stand or show himself. He'd known John Watson long enough to know it was better to be recognised before you suddenly appeared, when John was armed and in what he'd regard as a hostile situation. Trigger twitch was real.

Heads whipped around.

'Mycroft? Is that you?'

Mycroft appeared from behind a large rock.

'Sherlock. Good of you to drop in. And John, delighted to see you. I was getting a little bored of sightseeing here, I thought we might go back to the hotel, what do you think?'

John smiled and nodded. He didn't want to stay here any longer than necessary. Clearly Mycroft didn't want to talk about the fate of his original purpose for this trip while they were still in this dangerous location. That suited John just fine.

When Mycroft walked, however, it was clear it wasn't going to be so easy to get out of the quarry as it had been to get into it. It took both John and Sherlock to support him, John at Mycroft's side and Sherlock below, to get Mycroft anywhere near the top of the cliffside. And it took longer than John was comfortable with. 

His instincts were good ones.

About twenty feet short of the top, they heard a sound, voices, coming from below. John stared up at Mycroft in horror, and then down at Sherlock, bringing up the rear. 'Shit.' He had no idea where the voices could be coming from, but knew they were in deep trouble if they were spotted. It was unfortunate that just as that thought raced through his mind, Mycroft's bad foot dislodged a small boulder and John wondered if it could try to make any more noise if it tried, as it fell. But noise was the least of its impacts.

Sherlock neither heard nor saw the rock coming as it fell, not until it was too late. It smashed into the side of his head on its clattering way down the cliff face. He managed to cling on, but he was dizzy now, the rock face spinning, and he couldn't take his hand off the rock to move it and climb higher. He could feel hotness dripping down the side of his face. The world turned a blurry approximation of its real self.

John didn't realise for a moment what had happened and it was only some yards further up that he looked down at Sherlock and saw his stillness and the white knuckles gripping tight.

'Sherlock, are you all right?' He only dared whisper, for he could see men starting to fan out to search around the quarry floor below.

He got only a quiet groan in response.

John tried to think. If he left Mycroft, the older man might not make it to the top. Sherlock was clearly in trouble but he was hanging on. He decided to get Mycroft out of here and then return. It was a split second decision. He grabbed Mycroft's shoulder.

'Get moving! Every second we delay, Sherlock's at risk!'

They reached the top of the cliff several minutes later. John left Mycroft with water and noted that Mycroft's leg looked a mess but would have to wait, and raced back to the edge of the quarry wall. He glanced down, and saw Sherlock where he'd left him. Good. He could do this. They were all going home.

He took a deep breath and prepared to climb down. He'd got one foot over the edge when a single gunshot rang out against the quiet of the desert night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curly Wurlys are literally the longest sweet you could buy from the sweet shop when I was small, other than a stretched out liquorice bootlace. Chewy toffee covered in milk chocolate, they have shrunk in recent years, or maybe I'm just bigger? Anyway, I liked to think of security men chomping on them, even if the chances of a Curly Wurly being able to successfully exit out of a vending machine hatch is in reality disappointingly low.
> 
> "East Coker", used as a code word by the security men at the hospital to communicate to Tamara that they were Mycroft's men and here for close protection of the baby, is the title of one of TS Eliot's sublime 'Four Quartets', for me his best work. The others, in no particular order, are Little Gidding, Burnt Norton and the Dry Salvages. Mycroft and Sherlock both adore Eliot, at least in my head.


	11. Bang Bang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The men try to leave the quarry and escape back to Amman. It is not without a bitter cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I publish chapters weekly but because I have been (Matt Lucas Pompidou voice) " Verrry Noorrrrtyyy", and spent my time writing CucumberxSherlock crossover crack fic, 'Cucumber Sandwich', I'm a bit behind.
> 
> So, enjoy this chapter, cause the next one is probably a fortnight away! Maybe sooner but a fortnight to be safe as a backstop. 
> 
> The good news, tho, is that the last chapter of Cucumber Sandwich is almost finished so will be up this weekend! Hurrah!

It missed. It actually missed. The gunshot John heard, ricocheted off the quarry wall, only about a foot from Sherlock's right shoulder. It was fortunate that there was a new moon so the skies were dark and of no help to the militants on quarry floor below them, trying to see their targets in the darkness.

Sherlock kept climbing, therefore, slowly and steadily, like a graceful spider, though his eyes looked scrunched shut and his head was lolling slightly, as John climbed down as best as he could manage it. It was not a graceful sight. He'd recovered quite a bit of function in his right hand but it wasn't great for demanding tasks. Climbing rock faces came into that category these days, unfortunately. But fear and desperation gave him the sort of inner fire that helped him to propel himself downwards effectively if untidily and soon, more gunshots cracking out wildly all the time, he was at Sherlock's level. Thank God.

Instead of trying to support Sherlock up the cliff, which frankly wouldn't have worked with his bad arm, John instead took out a broad flat band of thick industrial webbing and attached it to a thin but incredibly strong cable made out of hundreds of thick wires, a smaller version of the kind of cables that hold up massive suspension bridges all over the world. This cable could probably tow the Land Rover. It could certainly hold a Sherlock.

But it did mean leaving him. John quickly checked Sherlock's pupils and pulse. He was not responding as John would like, if he was honest. Possible concussion? Could be serious but could be worse. Better than a bullet, for example. He didn't try telling Sherlock the plan. If he was with it mentally he would work it out fine - and if he wasn't, there was no point in telling him.

John started climbing back up the quarry walls, willing himself to get faster, stronger, reach the top and start hauling his husband to safety. As he reached the ground level above the quarry once more, his breath puffing now with the exertion, he ran back to the Land Rover, leapt in and drove it forward, no need for secrecy now they were exposed. Attaching the end of the cable to the Land Rover’s towing eye, he knew now that Sherlock could no longer fall. It made him feel much better, knowing that and he began to think of Amman and a hotel.

He ran back to the edge. Sherlock was creeping higher all the time, but he had to concede that the gunshots, whilst scattered and amateur because of the dark, were getting closer. It was only as he approached the edge, that John realised that the cable glinted slightly even in this darkest of nights, as it tried to twist and spin Sherlock. At the moment he realised that the cable would betray him, the world dissolved into slow motion.

................

He heard Sherlock grunt just as the bullet hit him, just ten short feet from the top of the cliff and a baffled look appeared on his pale face as he stopped climbing and started simply slumping in the webbing strop. He looked like he did when he couldn't find his nicotine patches, or found that the Chinese takeaway wasn't still nice to eat after five weeks in the bread bin… John wondered if he himself had looked the same when he was shot in Afghanistan? Afterwards, he would realise this was the only time he'd ever seen Sherlock look - well - stupid... confused... at a loss.

The baffled look disappeared. A trickle of blood ran down the side of Sherlock's face. His eyes closed.

John panicked and called down.

'Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. No. Sherlock, no. NO Don't go to sleep. Stay awake for me.'

John ran to Mycroft and shook him.

'Mycroft. Get up, get in that fucking vehicle and reverse it. Do it slowly but do it NOW. One more hit and your brother is dead, - hundred per cent. Now GO. '

Mycroft looked in pain but nodded, hobbled over to the Land Rover and switched the ignition back on. Then he gradually reversed, while John at the cliff edge waited to hoist Sherlock over the edge. Already he could see a thin stream of blood falling from Sherlock's boot, and down onto the sand below, meaning the insurgents would probably know they had hit him. He hoped that they would think Sherlock was already dead. He would have opened fire himself on the bastards, but he could see little in the ink-black darkness and there were far too many to take on. And in a few seconds more, Sherlock was appearing near the top of the quarry wall and John was hauling him up and over the top of the rock face and onto level ground. God know what damage dragging him up those last few yards of rock face had done to him. John uncoupled the cable and hauled Sherlock back from the cliff edge.

Mycroft limped over as fast as he could.

'How does he look, John?'

'No time. I'll find out in the Land Rover. That is, if you are up to driving, at least for now?'

'Yes. Not for long, but yes. If you have anything for the leg?'

'Start without, just for now and I'll dope you up as soon as I get the med kit open. We need to go now, Mycroft. Meds on the way.'

Getting Sherlock into the back of the jeep wasn't the easiest task, even with two of them, and both of them had a good deal of his warm, traitorous blood on them by the time they had succeeded. Sherlock was still conscious, but barely. His lips were pale blue and he was mumbling.

................

The journey back towards the border and thence onwards to Amman was terrible. Mycroft tried to drive gently but he knew he also needed to drive fast, very fast and the two things really didn't go together. John was trying to assess Sherlock in the back of this aluminium and steel tin can of a truck and feeling sicker and sicker.

The head wound was bizarrely, not too bad. A graze, it had clipped the top of Sherlock's ear and just the outer layer of skin. So close, but lucky.

Not so lucky elsewhere. John had heard one shot but in reality Sherlock had been hit by two, which must have been fired almost simultaneously to each other. The other shot, that was the one which made John run cold with fear. It had hit Sherlock squarely in the back as he'd climbed. There was no way of telling what damage could have been done, to internal organs, to nerves, to the spinal cord. Sherlock was out cold and they'd had to move him like a bloody sack of potatoes. The last thing you want to do with a possible spinal injury.

John had to make that choice once before, when he'd been driving along the M42 near Birmingham. He'd been in the slow lane and had seen a car tyre blow out on a car in the fast lane and the people carrier had slewed across all three lanes of the carriageway right in front of him, like a video game and then overturn and roll three, four times before coming to rest. Fuel started leaking as John wrenched his car onto the hard shoulder and to a stop fifty yards further on and ran back to the vehicle, speaking to the emergency services on his phone as he did so. The fire started as he approached the vehicle. There had been six in the car, an Indian family heading to see relatives, it transpired. He got them out through the sunroof, Mum, Dad, Granny and the three little kids. It was the mum who had been crushed badly by the repeated impact and he suspected a spinal injury, but he had to make the call then as now and drag her out all the same. Twenty seconds after she was clear of the vehicle and lying on the dirty, grassy bank amongst the Macdonalds detritus and mysterious small lost bits of vehicles, the people carrier exploded into a ball of flame.

It was the same now, except John didn't make a decision... because John had thought Sherlock was shot in the head and that he was dragging up a corpse most likely. So, the decision was made for him.

.................

Now, John tried to immobilise Sherlock as much as he could with what little he had to hand and then he stripped his husband of his clothing, down to his pants. The left side of Sherlock's body was a bloody mess, skin stripped off in some substantial patches on his arm and leg, the face the same. That was the abrasion from the quarry walls. Lots of bleeding, which John tried to stem with bandages. The head wound too, he bandaged, including that motherfucking ear which just bled and bled, as ears like to.

The wound that bled the least, however, was the one that John feared most. That bullet in the back.

He briefed Mycroft, who was still driving. They were an hour out from the quarry now. Mycroft listened intently and John saw him flinch visibly when John told him about the second bullet wound. A few minutes later, while John was once more tending to Sherlock, who was making horrible groaning noises, and agitated now too, Mycroft brought the Land Rover to a halt and dove out of the driver's side, the sound of running footsteps followed by the sound of vomiting.

Only then did John remember that he'd promised to give Mycroft painkillers and to take over the driving soon after they left. He felt bad about that. He gave the man a couple of minutes to regain his dignity and then got out the Landy and went to join him.

Mycroft was staring out into the desert night, looking as stern as he ever did, a vision that was totally in contrast to the tears rolling down his cheeks unheeded. John, who had never seen anything of this sort from the man, stood for a minute or so, not wanting to intrude but he couldn't wait, there wasn't time. Sherlock needed a hospital and they needed to get the fuck out of here.

So that's what he said.

'Mycroft? We need to go. Right now. Get into the car. In the back. I want you to check Sherlock's breathing, blood pressure and pulse every three minutes and to call the last two out to me. And I want you to monitor his level of consciousness. Tell me if he moves anything, a finger, a leg, blinks, anything. Got it?'

Mycroft, pale and drawn, just nodded.

'Good. Now hold on tight once you're in and hold onto him too. I'm going to go... quite quickly.'

Grim-faced, John watched Mycroft clamber awkwardly and slowly into the back of the Land Rover and then slammed the back door. It felt strange ordering the British Government around, but at this moment this was more like being back in the military and Mycroft was just another civvie who was floundering.

The vehicle screeched off, sand spinning out from under the wheels and John floored the throttle, only slowing when the ground was rocky or the undulations meant a risk of leaving the ground altogether.

Only once did they hear the sound of distant gunfire and John simply pressed down harder on the accelerator pedal. Other than that, they saw and heard no-one, for which fact John was profoundly grateful.

........................

Mycroft was doing a good job with his monitoring. Sherlock was still unconscious, but much more shallowly now, and his pulse was a little stronger. He had started to moan more quietly. John half turned back to Mycroft just before he phoned ahead to Anthea.

'Has he moved anything, anything at all?'

Mycroft made a "comme ci, comme ça" sort of face.

'I think a tiny movement in his facial muscles, but so small I don't know if the tics are controlled or involuntary. He's able to breathe and swallow, as you know, which is something. But I haven't seen anything below his neck. Yet.'

The implications seemed to dawn on Mycroft. He looked at John with his hollow stare. John tried to be reassuring. Unfortunately his voice was far too controlled and clipped to be convincing, even if Mycroft was a fool, which he assuredly was not.

'He's still pretty much near unconscious. And still in shock. And some of the drugs I've doped him with for the pain will inhibit him trying to move. And… oh fuck it, he can breathe at least, let's just assume the rest is fine too until we can get him somewhere they can tell us more? Yeah?'

Mycroft nodded slowly, his heart full of fear. And knowing that he hadn't even asked about Wasim yet. There didn't seem a good time to do that.

.................

When they reached the outskirts of Amman, hours later, Sherlock was still rambling. John had caught his own name frequently in the mumblings, but could make out little else. Mycroft told him that some of the words were in Serbian, which made John flinch. He didn't like to think of Sherlock lonely inside his own head, held prisoner by his recall of traumatic past events. As they drove towards the airport, Sherlock looked more frightened, and although the speech was still incoherent, both John and Mycroft heard at the same split second the haunting sound of Sherlock asking "please not to do that, because it hurt too much." His voice quavered and fell away to nothing except fast shallow breaths. Fucking nightmares or hallucinations about his tutor. 

'I've had enough of this', John said stony faced, as they swung into the airbase, past the perimeter guards. 'He's had enough. No more fucking missions, Mycroft. No war games, no settling scores, no guilt trips, no wild goose chases, no mercy errands. He needs to stop.'

Mycroft looked away. Looked as if he was focusing very intently on a small spider's web in the bare metal ceiling of the Landy.

'Of course, John. It was... A wild goose chase, then. Your mission?'

John banged his head on the steering wheel. He understood why Mycroft needed to know, and yet resented him for bringing up a subject, any subject, other than Sherlock's minute-by-minute condition.

'Sherlock first, Mycroft. Always, Sherlock comes first. I am not talking about anything else until he is safe and in the best hands. Frankly, he wouldn't be in this shit at all, if we hadn't gone on this ridiculous scavenger hunt.'

Silence for a few moments. Mycroft regarded John with an assessing glance. ("He's frightened, which in John's case means anger, lashing out, losing his habitual caring manner, which normally persists under pressure. Just not when he's scared").

'I'm sorry, John. I shouldn't have let him come. This was my quest.'

John nodded.

'True. I know he was determined to come, but it was for the wrong reasons. He wanted to show you he was worthy of you, to give you the outcome you wanted, instead of losing Wasim like you lost Sherry and almost lost him. We both should have stopped him. He's saved enough lives and he deserves to get to live out his days and not end up on a slab or stuck in a wheelchair.'

Mycroft fiddled with his sleeve.

'I know. And I'm sorry, John.'

..........

They flew to Brize Norton, the RAF base in Oxfordshire: four hours later, they were touching down in the green and soggy familiarity of England. A helicopter was waiting, Anthea aboard. Sherlock was stretchered from the small jet aircraft to the even smaller chopper. He was strapped in, head immobilised once more by large foam blocks, strapping over his forehead to keep it all in place. He was awake now, but worryingly quiet, sunk in on himself. He opened his eyes periodically to blink at the changing scenery, but other than that, he kept them closed, unwilling to expose his brain to more data when his internal thoughts were clearly as much as he could handle already.

John held his hand, or rather, part of it, John's hand being less than half the size of Sherlock's own. It was strange for a creature of such grace and lithe movements, to have such giant hands and feet, John thought, and then drew in a breath as he realised that those feet might not move again. Sherlock still hadn't moved anything below his chest, although he had clutched his hands together at one point in the flight over from Amman, meaning that any paralysis was definitely below the chest. John prayed that Sherlock might just be exhausted, or have broken something, or maybe crushed a nerve or two. That he might just start to move his legs, like he had his arms.

It hadn't happened yet.

................

Once they landed at the Royal London Hospital (chosen for the heli-med landing-pad on the roof, avoiding another risky transport transfer for Sherlock into a land ambulance from a remote helipad), John summarised the scenario in bullet points, deciding to omit the drug history for now, pain relief being paramount. Sherlock was taken from them and John felt as though he was being ripped clean in two as they took him away, though he knew they needed to do X-rays and scans straight away.

He walked to the coffee machine, hit the first buttons he saw and bought two cups of scalding - something which might have been coffee, or cleaning fluid, or possibly hot chocolate mixed with both.

Sitting back down on the vinyl-covered upholstered chairs in the waiting room, next to a silent and brooding Mycroft punching away on his Blackberry, John waited for Sherlock's brother to bring up the subject neither wanted to discuss. John would have preferred to have waited until they knew about Sherlock's condition, but he suspected that would be some time.

.................

It didn't take long. A few minutes and five sips and a grimace into his questionable beverage, Mycroft, his face grimy and hair itchy and sandy from the desert, started to speak.

'Can I ask about Wasim? Is it the right time?'

He sounded weary and hopeless. "He knows, really", John thought. "It's not going to surprise him. He just has a little glimmer of hope that I'm about to destroy."

'Yeah. Yeah, now is a - a time.'

'Thankyou, John. Please tell me clearly and without dressing anything up. That's most important. Is Prince Wasim dead, John?'

'Yes. He is dead.' The words fell like blood upon stone.

He heard the intake of breath, the hiss and saw Mycroft's eyes close. A balled fist brought up to a chest, pressing against the curled scar of a letter "W" carved into the flesh. They sat there for several minutes, in complete silence, while the other people in the room chatted, or cried, or slumped wearily on the unforgiving plastic of the wipe-clean world of the hospital waiting-room.

'And Zahia? His wife? She is dead also?'

John could hear a note of hope now. He dashed it with a short, sharp nod.

'She is also dead.'

'Did they die together? Was he alone? Was she?'

'We found them together, but we believe he died first, before she found him.'

Mycroft frowned.

'Then how and why did she die?'

John took a deep breath.

'We don't know if Wasim was murdered or took his own life, but it appears Zahia came looking for him and was with his body when the insurgents tracked them down. She was killed by a knife wound to the neck. They cut Wasim's throat too, though we don't know if they did that before or after they killed Zahia.'

Mycroft looked devastated. John didn't know what to do, so he placed a hand on Mycroft's arm.

'Mycroft. Did Wasim and Zahia have a baby?'

Mycroft nodded slowly. 'A boy. Wasim wrote to me, no message, just a photo of the newborn in his mother's arms. I assumed he would be at the Palace, that the insurgents would show him no mercy.'

Yet in his grief-dark eyes there was a tiny question-mark. John would not be asking this if he did not have some information?

John smiled at him a little. Small, sad, but a smile.

'She took him with her, Mycroft, to Wasim. He was in the car the goatherd saw, too. She covered him with her body. They assumed the baby was dead, or didn't realise he was there. 

'He's alive, Mycroft. He's alive. And he's with Tamara. Well, he's in hospital, but she's caring for him.'

Mycroft stared at him, uncomprehending for a moment. Then his head sagged towards his lap and he wept quietly.

He'd always thought that Sherlock would be the love that would leave him and die, and he would have only Sherlock's child Parthalan to cling to for comfort. Instead, he had allowed Sherlock to be gravely injured, possibly disabled in order to secure the life of this child, this remain, this fragile relict of another love, the legacy of the kindest and best of all men.

Mycroft raised his head and wiped his eyes with the biggest spotted hanky John had ever seen. Next minute, Mycroft spoke once more, softly now.

'He's called Iskandar.'

'The baby? That's nice. Does the name have a meaning?'

'Yes. He's named after Alexander the Great. Sikandar too, the same meaning. Alexander conquered the lands that comprised present day DAK in the late fourth century BC. He passed through it on his way back home from his conquests with his troops and founded a city near the current capital. They did that a lot, the Macedonians, all the way from Persia to a city named Alexandria Arachosa, meaning Alexandria-the-Furthest. Some of his soldiers married local women, he was much in favour of cultural marriage, not just military conquest. Alexander died of fever in what we now know as Iraq, at Babylon, now called Hillah. Some call him "the Great" in the region, others still call him "Alexander the Accursed" for his defeat of Darius, but Wasim was always a fan, almost a groupie. His nanny used to tell him stories of Alexander fighting men on elephants in India, and of the wild drinking and dancing on the tables in the palace of Darius the Great.'

John didn't know much about Alexander beyond the fact that he ranked as Great with Alfred of Wessex, Catherine of the dodgy antics with horses and Frederick, about whom he could remember nothing. Charlemagne too, of course, but he didn't play the game by not having his Great in English.

So he just nodded in an interested and hopefully impressed fashion and before he had to be too convincing about any more history lessons from the British Government, Mycroft had one more question, it seemed.

'Where is he, where are they... now?'

This was the not good part. John suspected Mycroft knew Wasim must be dead, had to be with the lack of communication and the situation in DAK, but he would expect a body, two bodies, and due respect and funerals and probably vol-au-vents and sherry and black draped cortèges pulled by purple plumed Friesians with crimped manes and oiled hooves. And for the moment, he hadn't a hope in hell of getting that.

John swallowed.

'The bodies, they were... In no fit state. The heat, the enclosed vehicle, the time passing. We were forced to leave them there. It was requested that we leave the doors and windows open, in order that the bones could be cleaned up.....

He stopped speaking. Mycroft had left the room.

Five minutes later, there was a call for housekeeping to a lobby serving a fire escape on their floor.

.................

John Watson had rarely felt so alone in London. His head curled down into his hands and he breathed slowly and deliberately in and out, exercising what control he could, when all around him the world had gone mad.

He wasn't sure how long he was motionless there, but the next thing he knew, there was a gentle, kind tap on his shoulder, and he looked up to find a nurse standing there. The young man smiled kindly but hesitantly at him and crouched down.

'The consultant would like to speak with you. It is Sir John Watson-Holmes, isn't it?'

John nodded. Could he do this? Bear what he was about to be told?

'I - uh - Mycroft Holmes will want to be here for this? He went out and...'

'Don't worry, sir. Mycroft Holmes is already in the family liaison room. Afterwards, you can see Sherlock. He's asleep presently, but you can go and sit with him.'

John didn't know what else to do other than to mutely nod, and follow the nurse along cream painted corridors studded with unpleasant abstract paintings.

A door opened, and he stepped into the room. He took a seat and he waited to be told the future course of his future life and that of Sherlock Holmes.


	12. The Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's injuries become clear. And it becomes apparent that Mycroft has been hiding something...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been informed by several readers that there was "insufficient Mycroft" in the last chapter, and specifically not enough Mycroft Whump. This chapter aims to redress this heinous deficit, so for all fans of Mycroft, especially those who enjoy it when he is going through misery and suffering, hope you enjoy it!
> 
> NB The Royal London is a real hospital and is from where the London air ambulance operates. However I have no knowledge of it other than watching gory and alarmist TV documentaries, which would horrify Mycroft and Sherlock (crap telly) and make John shrug in manly resignation....

Mycroft looked terrible, John thought. Older than he could have imagined him looking, drawn, pale and almost a caricature of himself.

"I'm going to need to insist on him being admitted", John decided. "He's refused everything so far but he's going to crash soon unless he lets someone look at that leg of his."

John could see the dark stain on Mycroft's cannibalised trousers. They ended below the stump; the bloodstain and scuff marks of blood were present at least six inches from the bottom of the trouser leg. He thought about intervening now, but he couldn't see any fresh blood and he hadn't seen any drips since they left the Land Rover. And this briefing was too important to delay. So he sat, full of tension and worry, his gaze fixed on the door. Somewhere out there, in this building, Sherlock's body was revealing its secrets, its damage, and John wanted nothing more than to be with him. He felt physically sick at being separated from him, bringing home the fact that they were really, two parts of one whole. 

...............

After what seemed an age, but John's oversized watch assured him was only just under seven minutes, the consultant arrived. He was polite but brisk, which was probably ideal for talking to Mycroft and John, neither of whom appreciated flannel and flummery.

The doctor took precisely eight and a half more minutes to outline to Mycroft and John the details of the injuries Sherlock had suffered.

The head wound itself was, as it appeared, relatively superficial. However, there was a significant skull fracture and a small sliver of skull bone from the edge of the fracture site had been shaved off. Most worryingly, there was a suspicion from the scans that it might remain in situ, or rather, a little way from its original location. It might only be subcutaneous, which would be an easy fix, but if it had instead been pushed into the fracture site and be sitting within the brain cavity itself, that would be a different scenario, risk and prognosis wise. 

The positive aspect was that Sherlock, whilst displaying the effects of pain and blood loss, did not show symptoms of cognitive impairment or swelling on the scans, or during close observation prior to his current heavy sedation. Beyond that, they could not be certain.

...................

This was worse than John had expected. The head, he'd thought they'd got away with. He swore, loudly, and punched his fist on the pale beech table, then shook his head and looked away, before muttering an apology for his language. No one looked surprised or shocked, and that made it worse, in a way. Sympathy he couldn't handle. He asked the doctor to continue.

The consultant cleared his throat and nodded.

'With respect to the second gunshot wound, this appears to have been from a high velocity rifle, which as I'm sure you understand, is never a desperately good thing to be on the business end of. However, it's not hopeless. The shot was taken from some distance away and from a very oblique angle, and probably as a result of this, the bullet has not impacted the spinal column...'

John frowned.

"So where is it and what has it done to him? He couldn't move below the chest! Why couldn't he?"

Even Mycroft was getting impatient and snippy now. He murmured something under his breath, which he was unwilling to repeat. He looked grey and pale, which John attributed to the shock of the news about his brother. 

The consultant nodded. 'I know you gentlemen understand that HV rifle wounds almost invariably have serious consequences, and this is no miracle exception. In this case, the bullet has entered the lower right abdomen and has subsequently pierced the right kidney, where we strongly suspect the bullet is still lodged.'

John closed his eyes. The consultant took a sip of water.

'So...what do we do?'

'We operate, immediately. We try to locate and remove the bone splinter from within the skull or just outside, and relieve any pressure or build up of fluid. And we remove the right kidney and try to clean up contamination from the foreign matter that poses the greatest risk of infection. It's thanks to your on-site actions, Doctor Watson-Holmes, that instead of an overwhelming threat of raging infection, we at least have a fighting chance. But make no mistake, the head wound might seem a big worry - which it is, but it is secondary infection that actually poses the greatest survival risk now for Sherlock.

'We will have two critical periods. During and immediately post surgery is one, but the second is more protracted, the seven day period after the operation.

'Sherlock should manage fine with one kidney, as you know, so long as that one doesn't start to deteriorate for some reason.

'Now, are there any questions? I will of course need all the consent forms signing by you, Sir John. And you can see Sherlock, in fact I think it would be good for you and him, but only for five minutes as a strict maximum, as we want to get him prepped and down into theatre in quick time.'

John nodded and scrawled on all the many pieces of paper he was handed. They all contained dire warnings of the risks, and he glanced at those, then signed anyway. His hand was shaking again. His signature was faint and scratchy. It would have to do. Not so much positive consent as recognition that there was no option. The consultant took the papers back with a look of compassion. John gripped his left hand with his right as best as the right would do. He looked away and blinked rapidly to prevent the tears from coming.

Then, once more in control, he spoke again.

'What would you rate his chances?'

The surgeon shrugged. 'It's infection, what can I say? If he's lucky and escapes major infection or we get it under control, 100% survival. If he's not and we don't, zero per cent. Brain-wise I'll be able to tell you a lot more once we are in there and know what we're dealing with. I'll come out once the heavy lifting is done to update you mid-op. It won't be for at least five hours, so I recommend you try to get some rest - there's a family suite down the corridor, last on the right that you can use. There are twin beds and tea making facilities, a shower room and toilet, that sort of thing.'

......................

After establishing there were no more questions, the consultant pointed out the room and then led them to Sherlock's bed in a small private room along the corridor. John opened the door to let Mycroft enter, but the elder Holmes brother shook his head.

'Let me know when you are done. You only have five minutes. I very much doubt he wants to spend them with his fat lazy brother whose selfish actions put him in this place.'

John shook his head.

'You know Sherlock doesn't think that. And I don't either, not really. He's grown-up and he chose to come to find Wasim, no-one twisted his arm. It's just bad luck that we didn't quite get away with it and even more so that you couldn't get Wasim back out alive. I still have Sherlock, at least for now and I have our two kids. You've lost Wasim. I know you have Tamara and Rachel and possibly, for a while anyway, you have Iskandar, but that doesn't take away from the pain of this loss.

'So we both go in, we both hold his hand and we both try to communicate with him, sedated or asleep or whatever he is, that he needs to try to fight this. And then we get you looked at Mycroft. No arguments, that leg needed treatment.'

Mycroft bowed his head. He was too exhausted and grief-burdened to argue any longer.

'Thankyou, John. For - for everything'.

................

The room was quiet and subdued. There were monitors that hummed, that flashed, but nothing that made a loud noise or intruded on the mood set by the dim lighting. The blinds were closed.

Even in the quietest times at Baker Street, it was never really totally silent. Sunday mornings came close, before Parthalan and Ishbel clattered up the stairs, racing to be the first to get a cuddle or sit on a knee or see the latest specimen in Sherlock's small laboratory. Then, in the still quiet of the early morning, the traffic fell quiet on Baker Street and the two men could lie in bed, still and calm and their smallest whispers could be heard. Sometimes, of course, it was not whispers but sighs, or moans, or the approving "Mmm" that could be heard. Most of these were heard from John. Sherlock was a quiet lover, saving his voice for the single word "John", which was uttered in limitless variation of tone but always with desperation, need and in the end, triumph and joy.

Here, no sound was oppressive, not joyful. The quiet hung in the air as John took the few strides across to the bed. Mycroft hung back, gasping slightly as he wrenched himself into an armchair (pale grey-green, not unlike Mycroft's skin tone right now). "Three minutes", John decided. No more. Then we go and get him triaged.

.........

He only had three minutes, so he made an effort to focus them on the man in the bed. He didn't know if Sherlock could hear him, so he made an effort to hold back the tears that threatened to engulf him and instead he spoke to him in an effort to make Sherlock understand that hopefully the worst was over and that the surgeons would make him better and that then they could all go home.

Sherlock was so pale and quiet, unseeing. Like John Milton, who died "blind and quiet". The complete immobility demanded by the neck and head brace because of the possible spinal injury had been replaced by deep sedation and drugs to help reduce any swelling inside his skull. John knew that brain surgery wasn't used as the exemplar of complexity and risk for no reason. Sherlock could be changed utterly by this injury, or by this surgery. He might not return to Baker Street the same man he'd left it. John wondered how that might affect their relationship. More, he wondered how it would affect the delicate balance of the relationship between Sherlock and their children, especially the sensitive and fragile Parthalan. He knew the aftermath of a brain injury could be frustration, bursts of irrational anger and sometimes depression. The children were too young to really understand and John dreaded the idea of having to try to shield them. There was enough about Sherlock's personality and life that they already had to protect the children from: the security threats, the drug history, the taunts about sexuality, the impact of the abuse Sherlock had been subjected to.

Finally banishing these unwelcome thoughts, John kissed the smooth forehead, stroking the dark curls, thick with dirt and sweat still. They'd sort that out, he thought. Probably have to shave some of his hair off. It seemed symbolic, like Samson's long hair, or Aslan the lion on the stone table, both being shorn of their locks and with it, their power. 

John had to shake himself.

He helped Mycroft to the bedside and supported him as he sat. Unlike John, Mycroft buried his head in his hands. John knew that the dual guilt Mycroft was robing himself with, was for Sherlock's injury but also for Wasim and Zahia's death. For the first time ever, John was worried for Mycroft's psychological health. He was extremely grateful that Tamara was going to be on hand to care for for his brother-in-law. Working through that little lot was not going to be pretty or quick. It would be very beneficial if Sherlock made as complete a recovery as possible, for this reason alone, if there weren't so many others. Like the fact they were meant to get old, and sit in sun loungers, and eat ice cream cones with their dentures in velvet smoking jackets and feed the goldfish and have to put the TV on at maximum volume but still need the subtitles.

The time wasn't enough; it was over all too quickly, and John once more helped Mycroft to his feet. Once they were out in the corridor, a nurse directed them towards the family room. But the weight propped against John, the doctor realised, was slumping alarmingly and so he called her back, and asked for her to fetch someone to help them. Now.

............

Before the running feet of the nurse could get an orderly to bring a wheelchair, Mycroft collapsed, John lowering him to the ground in the corridor, as he had once lowered a close to death Sherlock at 221B.

The wheelchair was cancelled and a trolley-bed was brought in its place. John didn't think he could face much more today. All colour seemed to have drained from Mycroft's face and arms.

They wheeled Mycroft into a cubicle, and started to cut open the trouser leg. John stared. Inside the material was a kind of long expandable plastic cup. So while John was reassured by the absence of large amounts of visible blood loss, in reality there was pints of the stuff. Mycroft's leg stump, he realised, was shorter than his trouser leg by some way. Had he known the leg might cause him real problems? Known it could start bleeding? But why the special retainer? Maybe he thought if he was captured and looked too injured, they might shoot him before he could formulate a plan to escape? Whatever the real reason, John cursed Mycroft for his subterfuge, which had put his life in danger.

The bottom of the stump was frankly a ragged mess. Scar tissue, flesh and muscle as well as bone competed to stick out the most. They didn't dare removed the plastic cup for now, John knew, because the bleeding was likely to be uncontrollably extensive if they did so. Mycroft would also need to go to surgery urgently. There was no guarantee of keeping all that remained of the leg, that much was clear.

.............

As they prepped Mycroft for surgery, they allowed John to stay with him. He wiped Mycroft's brow which was sticky with sweat. Mycroft gazed at him without his usual focus. The only things he said were 'Tamara' and 'Sherlock'. John nodded at him.

'Tamara's on her way. With Iskandar. And Sherlock has gone down for surgery. You need to rest now, Mycroft. You can see them, all three of them, when you wake.'

As Mycroft was wheeled away, he tried to smile at John, but it was more than he could manage and he looked away. John stood to attention for a minute, then breathed deep a few times, and headed off to meet Tamara at Reception. She'd missed seeing Mycroft by only a few minutes.

John hoped that wouldn't be something they'd all regret, later.


	13. The Royal London Hospital, Post Surgery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Holmes brothers fight to recover from the events in the Middle East.

Tamara swept into the hospital reception, the baby in a heather-purple tartan plaid papoose. John couldn't help but be moved by the sight. He wondered how Tamara was coping with looking after a baby who might be taken away again, perhaps with very little notice. There had to be other family that had survived, and if this baby was the heir...Perhaps it would be irrelevant, the son of a black sheep prince who was both dead and heir to a throne that no longer existed? For now at least, Tamara was holding on tight to a baby who looked nothing like her, followed in by three burly close protection guards, with several more outside the front doors of the hospital and a half dozen at the back doors, laundry chutes and bulk rubbish bins.

John came forward and embraced her as best as he could, with the baby snuggled between them. Both of them asked "How is he?' at the same time.

'You first', said John, conscious that he could see that the baby was out of hospital quicker than predicted and clearly fairly healthy.

Tamara looked grateful.

'Mycroft and Sherlock? How bad are they?' She chewed on a nail. Tamara never did things like that. She was now. Several were bitten down almost to the quick.

He sat her down, and took her hand. The old woman on their left was eating a curled-up and rather depressed-looking cheese sandwich out of a plastic packet. The cheese looked much like the plastic. It was violent orange; John was sure milk didn't leave the cow that colour. She ate like a tortoise, snapping small bites with a blank expression and little evidence of satisfaction with her feeble meal, as John explained to Tamara the whole sorry tale.

Tamara was quietly distraught when she realised he was telling her that Mycroft had already been taken for surgery and she could not see him. She looked away and nodded but her face screwed up, and she suddenly looked her age.

..............

Later, they sat in the allocated family room with its cheerful pictures and valiant efforts not to look like a prison cell, catering as it usually did for families with a relative, often a young child, who might not survive. The water from the tap was chalky white and the kettle was scaled up. A small curl of ripped wallpaper poked out by the light switch. The windows overlooked the hospital laundry and were grubby and steamed up. But the room itself was clean and quiet, these small things aside and the adjoining bathroom was a godsend when it came to looking after Iskandar.

It was only now, for the first time, that John really looked at the baby. Before he'd been dirty and covered in dust and John's focus was solely on his immediate medical needs. Now he was clean and healthier, John could see that, like his father Wasim (and like Sherlock in fact), he was an exquisite creature. Zahia had been a great beauty, if a shy one, with a slim figure and captivating eyes framed by long dark lashes. And Wasim's own beauty had been all grace and the slender catlike quality that Sherlock shared.

Still, even exquisite babies make stinky nappies and for once John was weirdly glad of it. Glad to have something to distract him, something to occupy his hands and glad to give Tamara the chance to rest and get her head around what was going on. The wiping and gently cleaning of the baby, enabling him to breathe in that special, irresistibly clean baby smell, was accomplished more slowly than usual, John taking time with every bit of this ritual; ordinary, finite and precious.

Of course it only partially worked, the attempt at distraction. Every time they heard footsteps in the corridor outside, they both tensed and glanced at each other, even though they knew it was too early to hear anything yet and the footfalls were clearly those of nurses in comfortable shoes, or the heavy tread of the security men assigned to protect Iskandar.

John eventually sat in an armchair, Iskandar on his chest, while Tamara lay down on the bed. Normally John wouldn't have slept at a time like this and Tamara certainly didn't, but John and Iskandar were both worn out and the next thing John knew, Tamara was softly shaking him awake and there was a doctor standing in the room looking sympathetic.

.................

John passed Iskandar to Tamara and tried to straighten up his appearance a little. For the first time in a long, long time, he felt like he wanted a drink. He'd given up alcohol after the miserable aftermath of the last time he went on a bender with the Met guys: his actions that night had nearly destroyed his marriage. Now, he thought longingly about getting completely hammered, though he knew it wasn't any kind of answer to anything.

The surgeon was still dressed in theatre garb, all mint green and baggy, smelling of antiseptic authority. He told them that Sherlock's surgery was only about a third of the way through, but that they now knew what the lay of the land was in respect of his injuries.

John felt his hand being taken by Tamara's long slim fingers and clasped in support. He gave her a grateful look.

'So, the head wound did, as we suspected, have a fracture with a bone shard which had travelled a little way. There was some swelling and we have removed a small section of skull bone to allow room for the swelling to resolve and that bruising to heal. We now need to stitch up the wound. Eventually, the bone will regrow over that small area and the hair will regrow too.

'What we don't yet know for sure, of course, is whether there have been any implications for Sherlock's speech, his movement, or his cognitive abilities. We hope there will be none; there is a good chance there may be none, but we cannot have any degree of certainty until he wakes and we can ask him to move, answer questions and make complex calculations.

'Moving onto his back, the bullet has been more straightforward for us. We have removed it along with the damaged kidney; in fairness, it was a bit of a mess in there and we have tried to suction out the blood leakage. The bullet wound itself is a fair old size, but its passage does not appear to have impacted the spinal column. Hence, the infection risk is the greatest hazard to his survival going forward. There will be a significant entry scar, but if it heals well, that should be all.

'You will be able to see him when he's in recovery, in about three hours time.'

John's mind was racing. This was mostly positive, unless Sherlock's ability to function was affected or he caught an infection.

They thanked the surgeon, who strode off back down the corridor to change his gown and go back into theatre to oversee the remaining procedures.

Tamara hugged John. Iskandar stared at them out of his pram.

'You have no idea, baby boy, what my husband has gone through to save your life', John thought. He knew it was worth it, but it was hard, all the same, to take.

........................

It was several hours more before Mycroft's surgeon came to tread the same corridor to tell them about the elder Holmes' prognosis. Tamara stood to greet him, as John looked on and kept an eye on the sleeping Iskandar while listening to what the doctor had to say.

It wasn't great news. The work needed to sort out the stump had involved cutting back what was left of the lower leg to the point that there wasn't enough now to anchor the artificial limb. The knee was no longer functional. They had had to take the amputation to above the joint. To all intents and purposes, Mycroft would be starting again with his rehab and new limbs, limbs that would have to be much more complex to operate not just an ankle joint, but a knee as well.

Tamara cried. Not because she thought Mycroft wouldn't cope with the leg; she was much, much more worried about his feelings of guilt over Wasim and Zahia's deaths. No, it was because he had kept the leg after one incident; it seemed so cruel to then lose more functionality and dignity in another. 

Yet she knew that this was the nature of the life Mycroft led and that ultimately, he was lucky to have made it to this point in his career still alive, being who he was, or at least without losing a lot more than a leg. And that loss of life was part of his world. She glanced gratefully at the armed guards, standing just outside the doorway.

....................

Three hours later, both the Holmes brothers were out of surgery and in the recovery room and John and Tamara were waiting for their respective spouse in separate hospital rooms. Iskandar had been collected by Anthea and taken back to Eaton Square, where Parthalan and Ishbel were being entertained by Kirsty, their nanny. Kirsty had rolled her eyes when told that another waif and stray had been scooped up by the eccentric Holmes brothers, but took one look at Iskandar's dark eyes, stupidly long and curly lashes - and fell in love, as Anthea knew she would.

John was the more nervous of the two partners. Tamara knew the full situation with Mycroft and his injury was serious but wholly physical, other than the grieving process for his leg and for Wasim and Zahia. Sherlock on the other hand, had undergone brain surgery - even the words sounded unbelievable - and the effects were a total unknown, until he woke.

So when the trolley bed was wheeled in and parked once more, John had to sit on his hands and force himself to be quiet. He wanted to ask Sherlock questions, make him move limbs, show John he was still the man he knew and loved and married. The man who had driven him to, and beyond the brink at times, but whom he loved beyond all reason and comprehension. But, instead, he had to sit, silent and concerned like all the other relatives, able only to look on as the thin figure in the bed with a shaved section on his head sporting large stitches and a dressing covering the missing piece of skull, started to stir, just slightly. John longed for more.

'Come on', he muttered every few minutes. 'This isn't like you. Wake up and do something not good. Just - come on, Sherlock. I need you. And Parthalan - he needs you more than anyone.'

Over the next half hour the movement became greater and eventually Sherlock started to make noise, but John couldn't call it speech. It was sound, of course, no one could deny that, but what a horrible haunting sound, like the whimpering of an injured wild creature. It was awful. John wanted to comfort Sherlock, to make him realise that he was with him, that he was safe and the operation was over, but all he could do was take a hand and softly rub it, to whisper and hope that Sherlock could hear him.

He couldn't pretend that this noise making and the apparent distress it conveyed didn't make him panic; he realised that he'd expected Sherlock to recover as he had from operations before, groggy and snappy but himself.

'Come on, 'Lock. Throw me a line, will you? You're worrying me here. Try and say something?'

A shadow seemed to pass across Sherlock's face and then he frowned. Perhaps he heard John? It was hard, John thought, to tell if it was that, or just a reaction to some internal pain or distress. He hoped it was the former. John checked the monitors and was slightly happier to find Sherlock's key signs were getting to normal levels. But still, the man lying in the bed said nothing.

John had thought, when he saw the frown, that this was it, that Sherlock was gathering his strength and soon would speak and move and everything would be okay after all. He waited and waited. All he got was more disappointment. Frustratingly, after the reaction to John's words, Sherlock seemed eventually, without any more movement, to fall back into a deep sleep.

John left some time later, walking in the small hospital courtyard next to their wing. He needed the fresh air and at this moment, he wished he smoked. Or drank. He didn't do either, much, these days. Not that he'd be allowed to here, but still...

.............

Mycroft blinked several times as he woke from the anasthetic anaesthetic in the recovery room. Soon, still sleepy, he was wheeled into a private room and he began to become more alert. He saw that Tamara was outside the door, talking to a doctor.

"She looks upset", he thought.

By now sufficiently awake to undertake the task, Mycroft escaped the kind sympathy of the surgeon's words. He had eyes, after all and his eyes could tell him everything, as he pulled back the hospital blankets. Primarily, they told him that he no longer possessed a knee joint for his high tech prosthesis. Now, his leg ended at a swathe of bandages halfway down his thigh. He'd lost the best part of what leg he'd had left after the bomb blast when he deliberately set off the device to avoid it being used on the rest of his family.

The feeling of dark, smothering depression at the further loss was slightly tempered, however. Once more, he was alive. Once more, he was glad that he had not escaped scot free whilst Sherlock had been shot twice and whilst Wasim his most beloved and Wasim's young brave wife Zahia had died. And it made certain decisions easier to finalise in his own mind.

By the time Tamara came into the room, his face told its own story. She took one look at him and realised there were no surprises she could soften for him, no news to break about his own situation; that he knew the full stark reality of his injury.

................

She did however, bring him a surprise in her arms. Once she knew Mycroft was safely through the surgery, she had the guards bring Iskandar back here to the hospital. She said nothing as she walked quietly across to the bed and placed the small bundle into Mycroft's arms.

Still, Mycroft said nothing, but the look of gratitude he shot her said everything. He buried his head in the soft baby blankets and sat there, head bowed, for long minutes. It seemed like hours passing, with just the hissing and clicking and beeping of the machines and the tick of the clock on the wall and the breathing of the three of them.

They didn't discuss Mycroft's leg. Instead, they talked about Iskandar. And Mycroft asked, hesitantly, fearfully, about Sherlock and Tamara tried not to worry him but what could she say? Nobody knew what the outcome would be. The odds were good but Sherlock was proving unusually reluctant to rouse and become alert and none of them could tell whether this was his body and mind regrouping and taking time to recover before facing the world again, or whether there was something more significant and concerning going on. Tamara told Mycroft that Sherlock was doing things in his own good time and that the news was fantastic regarding the possible spinal injury, that he'd escaped any paralysis risk. She had to tell him about the bullet lodged in the kidney though. As she expected, Mycroft was instantly insisting that his own spare kidney go to Sherlock.

'How does that benefit anyone? Then you'd only have one!'

Mycroft had to concede that it didn't, except that he said he felt responsible. Tamara just held him tight and told him that all of them who had gone were grown men, able to make their own decisions and he wasn't to treat Sherlock as though he had no agency of his own, since that conviction had caused as much damage to Sherlock in the decades since Jonathan Lang abused him at Holmes Manor as anything Lang did to him in those few disgusting life-changing weeks one summer.

...............

Time ticked slowly by in Sherlock's room. The hours passed in a unbearably muffled mixture of overheated rooms, watchful whispering staff and extreme stultifying boredom. John kept one eye on Sherlock all the time, even when staff came to give Sherlock a sponge bath. For once, John was grateful that his medical status and fame (via Sherlock mostly, but also his knighthood) gave him some elbow room when it came to the rules about visitors leaving for such procedures.

He was glad of it, because the first touch of the wet cloth saw Sherlock, eyes still closed, move into a kind of blind panic. It was only John's presence in the room that kept the two young nurses from the flailing fists and kicking legs. He sensed the explosive limbs almost before they had moved and launched himself bodily onto Sherlock and pinned him, trapping his legs and forcing his hands above his head. It wasn't ideal for someone recovering slowly from brain and internal surgery, but they couldn't afford to be thrown out of this hospital; Sherlock's consultant was characterised not only by being the best in Europe, possibly in the world, but also by a vehement opposition to private medicine. He was NHS through and through, which meant Sherlock's wealth could pay for all the private rooms and cable TV in the world, but it would not get him the top man to treat him, unless he was here under the auspices of the NHS.

John tried to subdue the struggling figure.

'No you don't', he muttered. You don't get to work this out on the medical staff, or you'll have me to answer to.'

Sherlock was showing no signs of calming. John had to think quickly. He was much better in extremis, he knew, than he was in everyday situations. Sometimes, he found himself pondering cheese salad on granary, or egg mayo and cress on wholemeal, for as much as fifteen minutes. Now, there was no such vacillation. He knew what to do.

The best way he knew to get Sherlock's brain, or the part of it that was aware, to capitulate, was to use his bedroom voice, as he thought of it. A combination, really, of elements of his clipped military speak and the kind of positive verbal stroking and praise that got his patients recovered much quicker and with the minimum of psychological after-effects.

'Be still. Good lad. Quiet and settle. My brilliant boy. That's it, slow and quiet. At rest. '

It worked like a charm and Sherlock slumped back onto the bedclothes. The monitors which had been showing elevated readings settled back into safer patterns and the nurses, looking hugely grateful if slightly knowing, were able to complete their ministrations without further risk of assault.

John breathed again and was able to take a damp cloth to Sherlock's brow, leaving the complicated stuff to the nurses. It felt strange, other people handling Sherlock's body. He was glad, in some senses, that Sherlock wasn't himself to know about it fully. He struggled with strangers touching him. Whilst that was understandable, completely so, given his history, his history wasn't something that John or any of the family wanted to share more widely. They weren't ashamed of Sherlock, far from it, but he himself felt humiliated by it and was dead set against making it public or taking any role in charities and campaigning for justice and redress for child abuse victims. And he had earned the right to decide that, even if John wondered if he would always feel that way.

He sat down again, heavily, into the pastel padded chair and closed his eyes in exhaustion. He really should get a shower. Some sleep too. And he needed to see his kids, missing them with a visceral pain.

But then he could miss the moment, when Sherlock came back to him. Not just in body, but in his mind.


	14. Mycroft has News

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to recover from his injuries and his prognosis becomes clearer. Mycroft, meanwhile, has some major news for them all.

Somewhere inside Sherlock's head, a war was raging. It was a war he wasn't sure he could win, or even if he wanted to win it. While he stayed unconscious, or asleep, or drugged or sedated, he could maintain the perfect, cool integrity of his unconscious thoughts. As soon as he lurched up into the light, up into consciousness, he recognised the slowness of his brain, the terrifying torpor that wanted to condemn him. Ergo, he panicked repeatedly and retreated before he reached the surface. Back to his Mind Palace, far, far away from the conversations he could hear, distant and muffled, drifting in and out of his hearing, in his green and cool underwater world. A world with sounds filtered through a glass harmonica like a deep green pool in a hidden cave.

He'd passed out once before in public. A school trip had taken him to Westminster Hall, next to the Houses of Parliament, to see a political debate between some big hitters from the main parties in the upcoming election. Sherlock was bored and fidgety before the mostly dull hacks started up and the hall was too hot and too crowded. Sherlock had done quite a lot of coke and something else he couldn't remember before he'd even got on the coach and he wasn't feeling terribly good by half-way through the first speaker. After an hour he knew he needed to get out of there, now - and asked to be excused. But his Politics Master was unsympathetic, as Holmes Minor had been disruptive since the moment they left Harrow and consequently, he refused. It was understandable, perhaps even wise. Sherlock had been known to do a runner and his drug habits were becoming a little more common knowledge than Sherlock knew. It was only his having not been caught on school grounds or in school time - yet - which had saved him to date.

Sherlock was still standing, speaking to the master, when he realised he couldn't hear his own voice any more, nor the masters, nor even the speakers (and they had mikes). There was a roaring sound in his ears and he tried to fight against it, but in the end he capitulated to the avalanche of noise and the muffling of all noise and simply had to let himself be taken by the darkness.

The noise of Holmes Minor hitting the floor caused a minor disturbance and he was carried out of the chamber, that place where a King of England had been on trial for treason, found guilty and condemned to death by beheading. Mind you, Charles I had probably eaten more recently at his trial, than Sherlock had and Charles had consequently not passed out.

So as it had been then, so it was now, the roaring and the muffled sounds were a welcome refuge once more.

.................

It couldn't last, though, this sanctuary. He would have to face finding out if his damaged, fragile mind was anything like it had been. That was his real fear preventing him from rejoining the people who loved him.

And so he finally stirred in the early hours of the next morning, to find John weighing his lower parts down, having breached protocol by the joint powers of total exhaustion and a Mycroft Holmes now alert enough to issue orders, allowing John to sleep curled up at the end of the hospital bed. John was hunkered under a waffle hospital blanket in an unattractive shade of dusky pink that reminded John as he had grabbed it from the tray table, of a rusty childhood tin of Germolene, dabbed on cuts and grazes by his mother. Savlon was much better, but Savlon didn't have the dual advantages of being pink and smelly and hence clearly superior. John snuffled and hiccuped once. Sherlock wasn't glad to be awake, feeling exposed and afraid of what the doctors might conclude, but he was relieved to see John at his station as his own protector and champion.

................

Sherlock didn't wake John, not at first. Instead he waited for the nurses to come to do the hourly checks. He was still groggy and his body seemed only partially wired up to his mind, though he didn't know if that was just the after-effects of the ordeal. The longer it went on, the more he thought that it was not.

Nicola, the nurse on duty that night, was surprised but very pleased to find Sherlock awake at long last and wanted to do a whole battery of tests to assess his cerebral functions, but Sherlock didn't want John woken, or at least, that was what he silently signalled to her.

He wasn't used to being overruled and so was very displeased when she shook her head and whispered that he was "here for medical reasons and they needed the information so that they could treat him appropriately". For once, Sherlock had to relent, being too weak to argue, but he warned the nurse to leave the room for a moment while he woke John as gently as he could manage. John, even after all these years in civvie street, was really not someone who you wanted to wake in a strange place when he was trying to sleep off exhaustion; it still held the risk of triggering an unconscious and violent reaction, as Sherlock knew better than anyone. Over thirty small scars from the blade of a small knife bore witness on his body to that fact, faded now but still a potent, permanent reminder that John's experiences had affected him in many more ways than his more obvious disabilities.

This, the nurse did concede and left the room "for a strict maximum of five minutes".

...............

Sherlock tried to move to an appropriately casual defensive position although his body still seemed to be operating slowly in relation to his brain commands. Thankfully, John's starting position, at the end of the bed and lying down, gave Sherlock a distinct physical advantage and he was able to quietly call John awake from a safe-ish position.

John was on his feet, hand to his gun, within a split second of Sherlock's voice penetrating his unconscious thoughts. Blinking at Sherlock, he stared for a long moment, seemingly finding it hard to believe his eyes. Eventually, it seemed he was convinced and gradually lowered the weapon.

'Hallo, John.'

Sherlock was surprised at how faint and rough his voice sounded. It didn't sound like him. And he had to think about what he wanted to say.

A moment later, the gun safely stowed, John was lying alongside Sherlock on the bed.

'I can't believe you've woken up. How long... ?'

There was a pause and a frown. Another pause. Sherlock opened his mouth but it was several seconds before speech occurred.

'Not - not long'.

Sherlock's words were slightly slurring, John thought with not a little alarm. Despite that, he felt overwhelming relief that he was at least conscious and seemed to be his old self, even if a currently rather slow-reacting version. 

John hoped for a decent period of peace before staff disturbed them, but Sherlock had to tell him that the medics would be in at any moment and John reluctantly left his side to go and piss and wash his tired face.

...................

As he returned and re-entered the room, he was followed in by four staff. John was then forced to sit and wait, trying not to interfere while they conducted a lengthy (and clearly exhausting) set of tests on his husband. Sherlock sat propped up on a mountain of pillows, holding his body stiffly in the manner of someone who is trying to remember exactly how to do so. It occurred to John that he had not yet seen Sherlock walk, or even move at all below his waist. Just as he was about to raise that question, it seemed that the question and answer session was over, lots of sticky pads were peeled off Sherlock's head, and they peeled back the sheets and asked him to try to move one leg and then the other. Clearly they didn't know the answer to his question, either.

The movement was like Sherlock's thought process, subject to delay. It was there, though and John tried to simply be glad and thankful of that. Sherlock looked upset. He also looked tired and weak. 

As soon as he could, John got the medics out of the room, at least for half an hour. He approached the bed, but Sherlock was already zoning out, already retreating from him. John suspected he was going to his Mind Palace to process the difficult concept of the good news and the bad about his functions and movement. He sat down to wait out the duration; he had learned from experience that there was no point in trying to hurry Sherlock, the man was genuinely not with him when he was There.

..............

They were left alone all afternoon, apart from a two hourly check on basic vital signs like pulse and blood pressure. All seemed fairly normal, and John fell asleep in the chair until shortly before the three pm check. Then, Sherlock stirred and pulled himself up in the bed. John noticed that his skin was pale and damp and he was trembling.

Sherlock raised his eyes to John. They were bloodshot. He looked, frankly, terrible. He swayed a bit, and closed his eyes.

'I think... I don't think I feel well, John.'

John hit the buzzer, swearing. Why had he sat there like a useless idiot and fallen asleep, while Sherlock was starting to build up a fever? He felt at Sherlock's forehead, which was now burning. Grabbing a flannel, he dipped it in the drinking water jug and tried to stop Sherlock climbing out of bed and trying to open the window.

It was as he did so, that Tamara turned up with tiny Iskandar. She took one look at John's face and the medics rushing in and exchanged a glance with John that told him she would make herself scarce and deal with Mycroft's enquiries in as low-key a manner as she was able.

................

It was both particularly dull and very worrying after that. The medics were blunt; the bullet wound in Sherlock's back was infected and they were trying new antibiotics. The word MRSA was bandied around. Since absolutely everyone who came within fifty yards of Sherlock was subject to the "John Watson school of pointed looks" and sometimes even pointing finger, in the direction of the hand sanitiser, (you wouldn't have thought nurses and doctors would need reminding but it seemed a few did), he couldn't understand how Sherlock had picked it up.

'Maybe he didn't', they said. 'Maybe he was carrying it?'

John shook his head.

'You test for it. When people are admitted. You test for it, for precisely that reason. Go and check the results.'

They went, they checked and then they had to concede, that Sherlock had been clear of it at the point he was admitted.

Like most medical mishaps, the issue of what could have been done differently seemed, in many ways, irrelevant when the patient themselves was already struck down, and like many relatives, John didn't feel he could afford to alienate any of the staff caring for Sherlock. So, he kept his powder dry for now.

They said the new cocktail of antibiotics would have an effect within forty-eight hours, if it was likely to work. They recommended John didn't touch Sherlock, to reduce the amount of sanitisation that he would have to go through each time he left and returned. He told them that he would be touching his husband as much as he needed for comfort and since he didn't plan on leaving the room except for toilet and sleep in the room next door, the procedures would be manageable. They backed down. People usually did, when John said something and meant it.

John settled himself in for a long haul. He hated it when they changed dressings and the wound looked angry and spiteful, the infection fighting everything they were throwing at it. He hated the distress that Sherlock, now coping with fever as well as the after effects of his surgery, seemed to fear but seemed unable to avoid.

..............

It was four whole agonising days, before the medical staff finally concluded that the new antibiotic regime "appeared to be working". And seven days, before anyone apart from John was allowed to see Sherlock. The fever had abated now, leaving Sherlock completely exhausted and John scarcely less. It was John, in the end, who cried first. Sherlock, too weak to comfort him, just held onto his hand with his own massive paw, still a little warm and damp but much better than he had been. Both of them had lost weight, John affording to do so better than Sherlock, who looked like a wraith, but neither of them suited such dramatic loss. 

Strangely, the period of fever, when Sherlock was unable to do anything, not even think, let alone speak or eat, seemed perversely to have had a distinctly positive effect on his speech and thought processes. Doctors weren't sure whether it was simply the passage of time, or whether his high speed brain was just too much for him to leap straight back in. John's copious and uninhibited tears, had been as much about getting the real Sherlock back, as it was relief at his recovery and John's own sheer exhaustion from lack of sleep.

..................

Mycroft came, the following morning, as early as the nurses would allow. He was in a plain black manual wheelchair, which Tamara pushed. Sherlock saw his leg, and nodded in acknowledgement, but did not express sympathy or histrionic words of sympathy. Neither of them wanted that. It wasn't their way, not for decades.

'Brother mine. You really need to stop lazing around and taking advantage of not having to eat, with that tube in you.'

Sherlock, who was hoping to soon be allowed to eat proper food again, was scathing.

'No matter, Mycroft. You've clearly eaten enough for us both. You can't afford it you know, not with your metabolism. Not if you are called upon to do any more... Legwork.'

Mycroft smiled at the pun, recognising it for an attempt to make him normal, that his loss of his leg was just as good to poke fun at as his weight or his receding hair.

Sherlock did see, then, in that smile, a slightly mellowed and less spiky Mycroft. This was Tamara's influence, he was sure.

Tamara came in soon after, and sat next to Mycroft, who appeared to be preparing to make a speech of some kind. John's eyes flicked from brother to brother. What was Mycroft going to say?

....................

Mycroft began his oration by advising Sherlock that whilst he had been raving and still in turns with his fever and infection, Mycroft had arranged the airlift of Wasim and Zahia's remains from the DAK to Holmes Manor.

John dared to ask the unaskable.

'Were they... Complete?'

Mycroft looked down.

'As much as one could expect, I believe.

'I have been in contact with various of the now exiled royal family members. I thought it wise to clarify whether they wished the remains to be stored for future burial in DAK. Regrettably, the reaction to the suggestion was hostile.'

'Because Wasim was queer? Or because he supported opposition movements seeking social reform?'

'Both.' Mycroft smiled, but it wasn't anything other than a very sad smile. 'Mainly the former. I got the impression that although Wasim thought he was being enticed home to be forgiven so long as he did the right thing, got married, produced heirs; in reality he was simply being used as a vessel for dynastic succession. Once the child - once Iskandar - was born, the family members I spoke to made it clear, that Wasim's days inside the protective fold of the royal household were numbered.'

John looked shocked.

'Does that mean that they killed him, or ordered him killed?'

Mycroft shrugged.

'It's quite possible. Maybe even likely. But I don't know how much point there is in trying to pursue it. Wasim is dead and I confidently predict, that even if the extremist insurgency is quashed with international help, the country will never return to an absolute monarchy. I have no stomach for the quest, not anymore. He's dead, that's all I have, all I know, and I no longer have appetite to care about the rest.'

Tamara put her arm around him. Iskandar wasn't present, but Sherlock hadn't forgotten about him.

..................

'You said that they had no further use for Wasim once Iskandar was born to provide a royal heir. What will happen to him? To Iskandar?'

Mycroft nodded. He looked deadly serious.

'Wasim's extended family have made it crystal clear to me that Iskandar must be returned to them. They are as determined to have him as they were to be rid of Wasim.

'I have made it equally clear that I strongly suspect them of having a hand in Wasim's death and that I will not let that child return to them. That is where an investigation into Wasim's death might be required, however difficult, if we need to prove they were behind his murder. Otherwise, as Iskandar's blood relatives, they will have a strong legal claim on him.'

He looked softly at Tamara. She had bonded so closely with the baby, he was the child she'd never had. He couldn't bear the idea of wrenching this tiny boy away from her.

'There will be a service and a burial at Holmes Manor. For Wasim alone, not for Zahia. Her family have asked for her remains and of course I have agreed. Wasim was very fond of her but she was closest of all to her parents. A coffin leaves on a flight tomorrow night to Jordan. From there we will make all efforts to secure a safe location for her burial and its ongoing security.'

'Sherlock, I know how difficult the Manor is for you, but if you can consider attending it would mean a very great deal to me. Wasim will be laid to rest close by the Holmes plot, and near to Sherry's grave. I am hoping Sherrinford will not be quite so lonely, as a result.'

Sherlock gave no answer. Instead he gripped John's hand and closed his eyes. The clearing with the graves was close to the house, so close. He didn't know if he could go that close to the place.

Mycroft seemed keen to leave the subject. He looked close to tears. A brother and a lover, both dead, both deaths his responsibility. You could see he thought it.

..................

He was speaking again, waiting for the rumble and sirens of a series of fire engines on the road outside to pass by and gradually fade.

'I have some other news as well. It will be news as much to my wife as to you, dear brother, but I am confident she will approve.

'I have not yet been advised as to the exact ramifications of my recent unauthorised absence on my official position in the British Government. However, it is irrelevant. As of today, I have resigned all my offices of state and am retiring from all of them with immediate effect. I have indicated that I will sacrifice my salary for the coming six months rather than work my notice.

'Mummy and Daddy have recently been hinting that Holmes Manor is getting rather too much for them. That even with paid help it's becoming rather more of a burden than a pleasure. We have agreed that they will move into the Dower House and we will be, with Tamara's agreement and blessing, moving to the Manor. I shall keep the house in Eaton Square until we are settled and then I will likely exchange it for something smaller.

Tamara couldn't have looked any more delighted. She just sat there and beamed and then hugged Mycroft with tears in her eyes.

'I really thought we wouldn't ever see this day', she murmured. 'That you would be killed in some intelligence cock-up on an operation and that Rachel and I would have only memories to talk about, when I was old and sentimental. And now we have a whole future, away from our old lives, away from all the danger, all the mistrust and backstabbing. And I have Wasim to thank for it. Without his loss and its consequences, you'd be in the hot seat until you dropped, I know it.'

She stopped, overcome.

Then, she suddenly left the room, unwilling to cry in front of them. Mycroft made his excuses, and wheeled slowly after her. 

The wheelchair squeaked. 

Another fire engine screamed past. 

John and Sherlock sat in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glass harmonica music is one of my very very favourite things. Especially as the night before my wedding, staying with OHs old Oxford tutor, it happened to be playing....
> 
> If this chapter leaves you wondering about Zahia's parents thoughts about Iskandar -and Mycroft's seeming intention to bestow him on Tamara as a gift as Syria was gifted to Cleopatra as her wedding present, then do not worry. Iskandar's future is certainly not yet resolved :-)
> 
> Music for this chapter:
> 
> Mary Black - A Woman's Heart


	15. Farewell. Vale. The saddest of all words.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this fic, I hope you enjoyed it.

It was a week later and Mycroft Holmes stood in the centre of a large room, empty save for the gilt and the mirrors and the ornate objets d’art. Devoid of all paintings, of all human representation. The fireplace huge, with inlaid intricate geometric pattern in rich blues against creamy white, the design timeless and unending. It seemed appropriate and chilling in equal measure, this place of dazzling pattern and no human face.

Tamara, too, was here. She'd never seen this place and so it was only Mycroft who shivered suddenly, assailed by flashbacks he had known would flood back if he returned here . She took his hand. He was grateful, close to being overwhelmed by the memories.

Wasim had left him this apartment in Pall Mall, this scene of quiet trysts and violent encounters, in his will. Mycroft had been taken aback, wondering that it hadn't been left to Iskandar, or in trust for him in Zahia's care. Perhaps Wasim suspected that his own death might not spare them? That there might be no one of his blood remaining alive to inherit his legacy. 

It was impossible to tell, now.

...................

Iskandar was sleeping in a baby basket, which Tamara had placed on the pristine laundered bedclothes in the first bedroom she came to. Mycroft had reached out a hand to stop her, as she turned the door handle, but his hand had fallen to his side. Perhaps it was right for Iskandar to be there? Where Wasim had loved, been happy, been most gloriously alive.

Tamara squeezed his hand. He smiled a watery smile at her.

'Should we sell it, do you think and invest the proceeds for Iskandar? Buy him a place for when he's at uni, pay his Eton school fees? Set him up properly?'

Tamara shook her head. She had been building up to broaching this subject and had no idea how Mycroft was going to react.

'We should keep it. When you sell Eaton Square, we should use it. Make it a happy place again. Keep part of Wasim with us.'

Mycroft frowned.

'But that's hardly fair on Iskandar. Wasim left me the flat but really it should be his? I don't think it would be right...'

Tamara looked at him with shining eyes.

'Mycroft. I love Iskandar like the son I never had, but I am not who he needs. We are not who he needs. He should be with his family now, to grow up with them, with his people. He needs his heritage, his sense of belonging. He would always be an island adrift with us.'

She looked at him with pleading eyes.

Mycroft was astonished. He'd thought Iskandar was the answer to his dream of giving Tamara a child, that it would make her happier than anything else.

'But Wasim's family have made their position clear. They want Iskandar, but only on their terms, to which I am not prepared to agree, poisoning his mind against his own father who cannot defend himself and his reputation. And DAK itself is unsafe for him now, may be always.'

'I know. I agree, Iskandar should not be brought up by Wasim's family. I think he should be brought up by Zahia's. His mother... We have been... In contact. They would need a safe haven, away from DAK. Perhaps in Jordan? If it can be arranged, it should be so, I am convinced of it. This child belongs with his people, not with well-meaning strangers. My regard for Wasim and your love for Wasim are no substitute for the care of his own family.'

Mycroft opened his mouth to argue. But nothing came out. He saw the fierce expression on Tamara's face.

He couldn't pretend that he wasn't upset, that he wasn't disappointed that his vision of a perfect family unit wasn't to be realised, but he also realised that really, in the end he'd wanted that utopia for Tamara. And if Tamara firmly believed that it would not be best for Iskandar, then given her expertise and her clear love for the baby, she was probably right.

He regrouped his thoughts.

'Would they consider living in London, do you think? Not in exile as such, maybe here and Jordan too? Just so that I can make sure that Iskandar is doing well? '

Tamara smiled at him.

'Here or Jordan, I am confident that you will be his most popular uncle of all. And they are happy for him to attend boarding school here later on, so even if he is living in Jordan it may be that we will have him for exeat weekends and half term holidays, when it's too short for him realistically to go home?'

Mycroft smiled now. He couldn't bear this last living link to Wasim to be extinguished, but perhaps it could be maintained. 

................

Four days later, a small sombre group assembled at Holmes Manor.

They stood, dressed in dark clothing with the unseasonal blazing sunshine mocking their funereal costume. Mycroft had, highly unusually, got very drunk the previous night and only the gravity of the occasion was maintaining his customary degree of poise. The wheelchair helped; he wasn't up to long periods standing yet, especially with the temporary prosthetic leg, so he had an excuse to sit for most of the proceedings.

It had been touch and go whether Sherlock would be able to attend. The grave site was close to Sherry's, under the big tree in the dappled shade where the earth is always dry and hard, rippled by gnarled and polished tree roots. It was close to the house. Very close. Too close. You could smell the furniture polish, the cooking smells, the fresh dug earth of the flower beds. 

In the end John, concerned that Sherlock might be planning to self-medicate himself through the distress of being this close to the Manor, took the unusual step of prescribing his own rather more controlled version of the narcotics Sherlock would no doubt have turned to. He thought perhaps they would not be visiting the Manor again, at least not so unchanged from how Sherlock knew it. The look of guilt and gratitude combined when he made the suggestion told him that he had not underestimated the danger level. 

...................

It was a sad small affair The only people attending other than these three were the funeral director and his staff, and an imam that Mycroft knew Wasim had respected.

Sherlock was pale and silent and stared straight ahead for the entire service, but afterwards, when Mycroft and Tamara were entertaining the distinguished imam (a noted scholar as well as teacher) inside the Manor, John found him sitting on the ground between Sherrinford's dusty tomb and Wasim's starkly fresh one, still in his black suit and tie, crying. John lowered himself to the ground to join Sherlock, cradling him closely in his arms like the little boy it seemed Sherlock always was when he came here.

'I wanted to come. To say goodbye to Wasim, but also to see Sherry. To say I was sorry that I never come to see him.'

Sherlock's shoulders trembled.

John held him tighter still.

'You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing. Sherry would be proud of you and glad for you that you are happy and free away from here. Don't be ashamed of yourself, nor guilty for living when he did not. Else his death really would have been for nothing. His death meant you could live.'

Sherlock sniffed noisily and gulped. He choked a little as he tried to swallow and talk at the same time. The sedative made his speech quieter and more hesitant, his thoughts muffled and soft.

'But Wasim, too. He deserved better. He could have been a great ruler of DAK, he was fair, believed in justice and humanity and he could have made the country a beacon in the region.'

'I know, love. It isn't fair. None of this is. Wasim should have been a role model, rather than the outcast he was. Maybe his country will recognise that, one day. Probably not in our lifetime though. The sands of time may be inexorable in their progress, but they are grindingly slow, and there are many casualties along the way. But he is at peace here, you know. He has Sherry next to him and most of all, he has Mycroft living here and making sure that his tomb is given the respect and the reverence he was denied in life and in the manner of his death.

'We need to get out of here, Sherlock. We have our own family, waiting for us, far too long. Let's go home.'

He supported his husband all the way back to the car. No words were exchanged on the way home, but none were needed. The living needed them now, more than ever and Wasim had no purchase on their futures. His beauty had crumbled to dust, and those that loved him crumbled a little at his passing, each day a little sadder than it could have been. 

The Eglantine, the sweetbriar, the rugosa of the desert, was nothing now more than a whisper in the winds of the dark desert night. 

'Vale'

 

THE END

 

"Here lie the dead because we did not choose  
To live and shame the land from which we sprang.  
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;  
But young men think it is, and we were young."

XXXVI from More Poems by AE Housman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No doubt I shall write another in the series. How else am I to find out what happens? To Parthalan and his dancing? To Mycroft and Tamara? To Rachel growing up. And to Sherlock and John, as they contemplate the unthinkable prospect of growing old. 
> 
> I would love it if you checked back and joined me on that journey, or (if desired) subscribe to my scribblings to ensure you don't miss it. 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments make a fragile flower bloom happily :-)


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